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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22528723">Few Escape the Gallows</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution'>7PercentSolution</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelleysprometheus/pseuds/shelleysprometheus'>shelleysprometheus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Forethought and Fire [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, And as is customary a few tags courtesay of our brilliant beta in no particular order, BDSM, Blood and Injury, Domestic Violence, Don't copy to another site, Grieving John, Hit him where it hurts John, I want to BATHE myself in this symbolism, Knife Play, Knifeplay, M/M, My poor sweet grumpy crumpet, No one's slick as Moran no one's quick as Moran no ones neck's as incredibly thick as Moran, OH NO HE DID NOT JUST!, OMG LET ME AT HIM, OMGGGGGGGGGGGG, Ohhhhh this is going to hurt isn't it?, RUN AWAY RUN FAR FAR AWAY, Torture, Violence, Well I'm glad he's managing because I'm tensed up tight as a Martin Freeman fist over here, YOU TELL THEM JOHN!, angry moran, casefic, consulking detective, deducing dunderhead, devious moriarty, expect angst, follows on from a dead man's money, how DARE, what has mycroft done?, where is sherlock?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:13:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>92,406</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22528723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelleysprometheus/pseuds/shelleysprometheus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dead. Moriarty is free. And John is ... falling. </p><p>What do you do when you have nothing to lose?</p><p>Following on from A Dead Man's Money, this fic pits a grieving John Watson against an angry Sebastian Moran. Mycroft is scheming in the background and Moriarty is making mischief.</p><p>And Sherlock ... ?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Forethought and Fire [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1161185</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>362</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>90</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>HolmesCon Writers Collection, Sherlock Author Showcase 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Without pleasure, without pain,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/22531006"><strong>Cover for Few Escape the Gallows</strong></a> by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellofbakerstreet"><strong>bluebellofbakerstreet</strong></a><br/><br/><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/22563823"><strong>Playlist for Few Escape the Gallows</strong></a> by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221"><strong>Dovahlock221</strong></a><br/></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“John fucking Watson.”</em>
</p><p>Sebastian mutters roughly at his reflection in the wall-length LED-lit bathroom mirror. He'd underestimated Holmes' sidekick, and that rankles almost as much as the beginning of the bruise on his cheekbone. He aggressively prods the swelling with his forefinger, profoundly irritated that he'd let the short guy attack him like that. Under normal circumstances there is no way that someone so … <em>basic</em> would have gotten past his guard. Whatever tours Watson had done in the army, he was still just a common-place army doctor whose skill set was nothing compared to Sebastian's own close quarters battle training courtesy of his time spent in Her Majesty's Special Reconnaissance Regiment. He should have been prepared for the unexpected (but apparently not out of character), violence. All of these games must be starting to mess with his head …</p><p>"Sebbie…" Jim's reflection appears behind him, wearing a smirk which dissolves into an expression of wide-eyed, faux concern. "Oh dear, did diddums get a bit of a bwuise?"</p><p>Glowering at the very idea of being talked to as if he is a child, Sebastian turns away and pushes past him to stomp upstairs to the reception room.</p><p>Jim follows him up, laughing. "Don't sulk. I think it's hilarious."</p><p>Jim flops down on the arctic-white Italian leather sofa and reaches for the remote. Sebastian remains standing by the sliding doors to the terrace, his anger keeping him rigid and distant.</p><p>To be caught on the hop by an errant fist had been bad enough, but to have the incident recorded for all of posterity just adds insult to the injury. Even worse, Jim had positively <em>crowed</em> with delight when he'd gotten back into the car.</p><p>Behind him, Jim turns on the huge television screen mounted to the wall and scrolls through the recorded programmes. Sebastian doesn't need to watch; the audio alone gives it away.</p><p>The buzz of journalists crowding around the Met DI outside the Coroner's court as he pronounces, “.... a full jury inquest is being scheduled." Then the sound of a scuffle as Watson tackles Sebastian, in the process causing him to stumble backwards into two journalists, knocking them off their feet.</p><p>Keeping his back turned, Sebastian relives the moment when the cameras had gone mad and the officers dragged Watson off him, shouting that he'd be put into handcuffs if he resisted. Behind him, the TV repeats the barrage of questions that journalists had shouted as the DI had helped Sebastian to his feet. "Do you want to press charges?"</p><p>Jim is laughing. "This is my favourite part! You being so <em>very</em> considerate… If they only knew how hard you had to resist the urge to clobber him back."</p><p>"In front of all those cameras? Not my style," Sebastian mutters.</p><p>"I agree. You're the shy type, the retiring type, the knife-in-the-back, sniper's-bullet-from-a-thousand-meters type. I am SOOO proud of you controlling your baser urges. Couldn't have orchestrated it better if I'd tried. You now look like the innocent victim of the deranged doctor. I can definitely work with that."</p><p>"So glad you found my humiliation useful." Sebastian's sarcasm adds an edge to his retort.</p><p>Lounging back on the sofa, Jim's smirk deepens into a toothy grin. "Your pride is bruised more than your face, Tiger. Not to say that the mark on your face is nothing to write home about. But just imagine what the damage would have been if you had Sherlock's cheekbones."</p><p>Needled by jealousy, Sebastian can't help but retort, "too pretty for you; he's not your type."</p><p>"Oh? You think I'd prefer the 'good' doctor, do you?"</p><p>Sebastian narrows his eyes. "I know you only played at that to make Holmes jealous. Watson's dull."</p><p>Jim pats the sofa beside him. "Come keep me company. You know I like it when you come on all the green-eyed monster. You're certainly not dull. A tad unpredictable, which adds to the pleasure of your company."</p><p>"I'm not in the mood."</p><p>Jim laughs again. "Good, that will make this all the more enjoyable for me."</p><p>Jim gets up and languidly strolls over to Sebastian. He has <em>that</em> smile on his face, the one he gets when he is daring his prey to look away, to turn and run. But Sebastian stands his ground, defiant. He knows it's just a matter of time until Jim bends him to his will, <em>again</em>, but he's not going to hand it over without a fight.</p><p>Jim stops only when they are standing toe to toe. The two men are nearly the same height, but Sebastian's considerable muscle weight gives him quite a different physical profile, something that he knows appeals to the Irishman. Jim raises a hand to Sebastian's face, delighting in the struggle that Sebastian knows must playing out across his features. Because as good a poker player as he is, he can never bluff Jim.</p><p>Sebastian focuses on slowing his respiration rate, fighting against the arousal that's starting to seep into his smooth muscles, spurred on by his autonomic nervous system. Jim this close is an irresistible force and being the sole focus of that piercing gaze, that razor sharp, utterly indecent mind is overwhelming. Jim could have, <em>has had</em>, anyone he wants, and right now, he wants Sebastian.</p><p>Jim takes his index finger and runs it, slowly, deliberately down Sebastian's cheek, scraping a well-manicured fingernail over the bruise on his cheekbone. Jim's careful, but it still hurts - and that's the point, the whole point of Jim. One would think he would be cold to the touch, with that ice water that runs through his veins, powering the space where his heart should be, but Sebastian knows better, and the path Jim's finger takes burns deep beneath the layers of his skin.</p><p>The borderline between pain and arousal is so very porous.</p><p>Despite his best efforts, Sebastian's nostrils flare as his body desperately attempts to suck in additional oxygen to feed his increasing heart rate. Jim's black eyes pounce on the movement, Sebastian's weakness, his tell.</p><p>And just like that.</p><p>Sebastian knows.</p><p>That Jim knows.</p><p>That Jim has him.</p><p>And that's the attraction, in a nutshell, isn't it? Being taken by someone who knows what you really want in the deepest, darkest recesses of your soul, despite your best efforts to keep them hidden. There's nothing anyone can hide from Jim, nothing <em>Sebastian </em>can hide from Jim. And it’s fucking <em>intoxicating</em>.</p><p>Jim slides his hand down Sebastian's neck and over his shirt front that's starting to dampen with perspiration and lets his gaze drop lazily down. And Sebastian's knows that his breathing isn't his only tell as his cock twitches under Jim's gaze, starting to swell and push against his flies.</p><p>Then he's taken by surprise for the second time that day as Jim shoves him roughly, pushing him off balance. He hisses out a curse as he flails backwards, but before he can fall, Jim twists a fist in his shirt and jerks him back, at the same time pulling him down so that their mouths are level. Jim rushes the kiss. It's all teeth and tongue and rough and ready thrust. And before Sebastian knows it, he’s pushing back, chasing, but Jim has already drawn back, out of reach and Sebastian is left hanging.</p><p>“Bedroom <em>now</em>, Seb.”</p><p>Jim’s bedroom (Jim insists Sebastian keep his own, down the hall) is a largely black and white affair. All hard-edged chrome and steel furnishings—minimalist with a few pieces of very, very expensive art on the walls. At one point Jim had attempted to educate him on the “finer” aspects of modern art but had thankfully given it up quite quickly as a lost cause. For the most past, it's a mystery to Sebastian why anyone would pay all that money for a few weird lines and obscure squiggles. Though he has to admit, he can kind of appreciate the ‘Pensato’ stuff, the scary-drip versions of cartoon figures like the huge Mickey death skull Jim has hanging over the bed, the remnants of the mouse's brain matter seeming to seep down into the headboard ... it's not the only fluid that's been shed in this room.</p><p>Once inside the bedroom, Sebastian goes to unbutton his shirt.</p><p>Jim corrects him. “Leave it on.”</p><p>As Sebastian is still fully clothed, shoes and all, he looks down his body and then up at Jim, questioning.</p><p>“Leave it <em>all </em>on.”</p><p>
  <em>Well, this isn't going to be comfortable, but it's not about my pleasure now is it?</em>
</p><p>Jim rummages in the bedside side table and tosses a pair of police-issue handcuffs at him with some force. Sebastian plucks them out of the air before they can impact with his sternum.</p><p>The handcuffs are souvenirs: Jim's warped sense of humour at play, Sebastian having nicked the cuffs from Holmes’ flat the last time he had "visited", the last time Jim had the detective and his pet out chasing their tails as he led them a merry dance. Sebastian had taken his time, enjoying running his (gloved of course) hands over their stuff, prying into their personal lives, and uncovering their little secrets. And lo and behold if he hadn't happened upon, concealed in the back of a nightstand drawer, Watson’s misappropriated service weapon. He'd checked for bullets before releasing the slide a few times. Clean. Easy. Recently serviced. Watson might be 'basic' but he kept his weapon in good order.</p><p>"On your stomach, that's a good boy," Jim purrs as Sebastian manoeuvres himself into place, sweeping Jim's pillows out of his way and onto the floor.</p><p>Behind him, he can hear Jim starting to undress, buttons being prised through stiff buttonholes and belt being passed through buckle. Sebastian squirms in anticipation, seeking the friction of the mattress against his now extremely interested cock, but only minutely so that Jim won't notice. But, of course, he does.</p><p>"Quit it Sebbie or Daddy'll get angry."</p><p>Sebastian stills.</p><p>"Cuffs on."</p><p>"You expecting me to do this to myself?" Sebastian snarks mutinously over his shoulder.</p><p>He holds his breath, straining to hear the slightest sound, as he feels Jim come around slowly to stand by the side of the bed at his head. Naked<em>. </em>Jim ghosts a hand over the top of Sebastian's head and down to the hair at the base of his neck, which he suddenly grabs hold of tightly, painfully as he whispers in Sebastian’s ear.</p><p>"Yes, yes I am."</p><p>And Sebastian moves to obey, securing one cuff on his left wrist, arm out in front of his head. When he goes to fix the other to his right, Jim stills him with a hand on his shoulder, fingers digging cruelly into the tendons at the front, making it impossible for him not to wince in response.</p><p>"Behind your back."</p><p><em>Oh fuck</em>, <em>Jim really is in the mood for a bit of fun.</em></p><p>Jim does the 'honours', twisting Sebastian's arm sharply to join the other one behind his back, snapping on the cuff. It's not tight enough to cut off the circulation, but tight enough that it leaves no room to move. Jim fingers trail over the cold steel at his wrists.</p><p>"Up."</p><p>Sebastian rolls onto his back and shuffles back to sit against the headboard, instantly regretting his earlier removal of the pillows as the rigid steel presses relentlessness into his vertebrae, unsoftened by the thin fabric of the shirt between him and it.</p><p>They have a safe word. Well, Sebastian has a safe word. But he never uses it. Jim knows just how far he can push a person until they break, which as Sebastian has personally found, is far further than he ever thought it could be. It makes him wonder how Jim misjudged how far he could push Holmes.</p><p>
  <em>… The fact that Holmes killed himself makes no sense at all ... maybe there was something else going on with the 'great' detective … but something Jim didn't know about? … It wasn't like Jim to push someone over the edge unless he really wanted it to happen ...</em>
</p><p>The fact that Jim hadn't wanted the man to die is what seems to be pushing his anger now. And Sebastian realises that he is being used to vent rage. The thought makes his breath hitch in both fear and anticipation as cock now strains against his trousers. Sebastian gives himself a mental shake —sitting prone on Jim's bed while the man stands at the end, watching him intently, is not the time to be thinking about Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>Naked, the Irishman is lean. Defined, sinewy muscle with no bulk but plenty of strength. Most people, in Sebastian's experience, appear vulnerable naked, stripped bare, but Sebastian marvels at the fact that Jim looks even more dangerous this way. Like the tailored suits are just the trappings of a society whose rules he cares for not a whit, but dons because the clothing is an efficient means to an end. Without the disguise, like a spider shedding its exoskeleton, crawling out of its skin, he's all bright and dangerous darkness beneath.</p><p>Jim’s eyes narrow on Sebastian as he bites his bottom lip with his incisor.</p><p>"Ooo, how I do like you like this."</p><p>He kneels on the bed and crawls up into the space between Sebastian's legs.</p><p>Even the way Jim moves is intoxicating, like somehow the atmosphere around him bends to his will, not the other way round. Certainly, every person Jim comes across does, Sebastian wouldn't be surprised if all the atoms in the universe did so too.</p><p>Jim's touch is delicate as he runs his hands up Sebastian's thighs, the muscles shifting, twitching beneath his fingers. It's barely enough pressure to register but it's enough that Sebastian feels the need to lock his legs tight against the bed to prevent him from pushing up into the touch. Because he knows that if he does, Jim will draw away completely. And Sebastian wants — no, <em>needs</em> the contact.</p><p>Jim studies him, watching for the slightest movement. Seemingly satisfied that Sebastian is behaving himself, Jim moves further up to arrange himself, knees either side of his thighs, erect cock nudging insistently into Sebastian's stomach. The smell of Jim's arousal drifts up to his nose and his mouth starts to water.</p><p>Jim takes Sebastian's face in his hands, thumbs on cheekbones, fingers locked into his jaw beneath, turning it this way and that, examining every inch of his skin in minute detail as he ruts against Sebastian's shirt-covered chest. With the cuffs pinioning his arms behind his back, Sebastian can only submit to the intense scrutiny. Finally, when Jim's satisfied that he's found whatever he's been looking for, he grins wide and ravishes Sebastian’s mouth with his tongue.</p><p>This, Sebastian knows. This he is allowed to return in kind.</p><p>Eventually Jim draws back. Taking his index finger, he runs it over Sebastian’s top lip and then the bottom, sweeping some of the saliva that has pooled between Sebastian’s tongue and his teeth onto his finger and then pushing his finger back into Sebastian’s mouth for him to suck it off. He withdraws it and there's a smacking pop as Sebastian's lips come back together.</p><p>Then Jim places both hands on Sebastian's shoulders and shoves him down hard. Obediently, Sebastian squirms and wiggles further down the headboard, until only his neck and head are pressing against it. Jim shuffles forward, straightening up and pressing closer at the same time so that the tip of his cock is now nudging against Sebastian's lips. It's a frankly ridiculous angle for his neck, but Sebastian moves to obey, craning his neck to swirl his tongue around the tip of Jim’s cock, licking it into his mouth.</p><p>Jim's languor disappears in an instant. He snakes his fingers around the back of Sebastian's neck and pulls forcefully, compelling Sebastian to swallow him down. Sebastian struggles to control his gag reflex as Jim thrusts viciously into his mouth. For the next few minutes Sebastian concentrates simultaneously on trying not to choke, and trying to breathe, while sucking Jim off to the best of his ability. And it’s a high, being the one to elicit the moans that are coming from the man above him while he does. He knows, too, that the fact that he could (but never would), use teeth to hurt Jim, is its own reward. His own cock is throbbing caught in an awkward position against his trousers, but without anything to rut against, his hips buck without relief. Allowing Sebastian to see him like this is why he knows that Jim will never question his loyalty. Even as school boys, even if he had been under the sway of Mycroft Holmes when they met ...</p><p>Mycroft Holmes. One of those Queen-and-country types, who just <em>assume</em> that the lower classes scurry to obey their commands without question. He'd never let Sebastian forget the fact that he'd been placed at Eton as a King's Scholar on Mycroft's say-so rather than merit. Over the years, his assumption that Sebastian would be grateful and willing to accept his mentorship had become more and more loathsome. Yes, Sebastian came from a single parent family, born on a north London estate. But that made the patrician smugness of Mycroft expecting him to be simply an obedient tool all the more galling. Jim wasn't like that. Even when he was reporting back to Mycroft what Jim was up to at Eton, he'd known somehow that Jim knew he was doing it, and <em>didn't mind. </em>When they'd left Eton, Jim had said, "Tell him to piss off; you're better than that." And so it had been surprisingly liberating to reject Mycroft and to join the Special Forces instead.</p><p>After leaving school, Jim had returned to Ireland to attend Trinity at Dublin, telling Sebastian to "polish a few of those skills, Tiger."</p><p>It had been easy to walk away from the proffered place at MI6. He had not wanted to waste time on a university education if it meant he'd be even more beholden to Mycroft Holmes and MI6. If he couldn't be with Jim, then he wasn't prepared to be Mycroft Holmes' man.</p><p>Jim changed all of that, when he'd reached out to Sebastian years later, after a particularly unpleasant operation in Afghanistan had gone tits up, with him being the only survivor. The invitation had been perfectly timed, arriving the same afternoon that he'd been sent back to London and put on leave pending the investigation into the Helmand debacle. Jim's hand-written note simply said "Come for a shooting weekend on my estate. I hear you have a taste for killing things these days." And then when Mycroft had somehow found out about Sebastian's visit to Ireland, he'd renewed the MI6 job offer and nothing in Sebastian's life had been the same ever since …</p><p>Gagging and short on oxygen, Sebastian is brought back to the now. <em>Mycroft Holmes, why the fuck is he thinking of that man while he has Jim’s cock down his throat?</em> Jim pounces on his wavering attention, none too pleased. He pulls back and out abruptly.</p><p>“Oh, Sebbie, am I not capturing your full attention? However will we rectify that?”</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>Jim swings a leg over the side so he's now perched by Sebastian's head.</p><p>“On your knees my boy.”</p><p>It's awkward, and Jim doesn't assist, but Sebastian eventually manages to position himself on the bed, shoulders forced backwards, hands pulled tight by the cuffs behind his back. Jim positions himself behind him, knees outside his calves, and reaches round to grab his belt buckle.</p><p><em>Hell</em>.</p><p>He can hear Jim's sharp intake of unimpressed breath behind him. Belt unfastened, Jim wrenches Sebastian's trousers and pants down to his knees, then shoves him violently forward so that Sebastian falls, face first, into the mattress, his legs straight out behind him. Jim wrenches Sebastian’s pants down further, past his knees to his ankles and then grabs hold of the link between the cuffs, yanking him back by them painfully, metal digging into flesh, until Sebastian is back on his knees, arse in the air, cheek mashed against the bed. Hanging onto the cuffs with one hand, and pulling back to maximise the pain, Jim preps quickly, just enough time and lube on his own cock before thrusting in quickly. Sebastian’s sharp hiss of pain on his entry only seems to spur him on further. Thrusting hard and fast, Jim's not just chasing his pleasure, he’s searching for Sebastian's as well, yanking on the cuffs, continually repositioning until there… that's it. Jim's cock is now hard against his prostate on every thrust.</p><p>Sebastian releases a guttural moan at the exquisite sensation that is more pain than pleasure—or is it too much pleasure that it becomes painful?—and Jim leans over him and whispers in his ear.</p><p>“Oh no, not until I say so.”</p><p>Gasping at the order, Sebastian can only hang on, knowing that if he comes before Jim, then the boundary between pleasure and pain will be well and truly crossed.</p><p>Later, much later, Jim shifts in the bed, planting a firm hand on Sebastian's back and giving it a none-too-polite shove.</p><p>"Bring me a cup of tea."</p><p>Sebastian pads barefoot into the kitchen and puts the kettle on, rolling his shoulders to see what the consequences of Jim's penchant for handcuffing him in awkward positions might have cost him. His wrists are aching, sore and red from the chafing of the metal and walking makes him overtly aware of the cost of Jim's roughness; his blood, the price to pay for distraction at the wrong moment.</p><p>The fact that he is naked doesn’t bother him, least of all because all the windows in Jim's Soho townhouse are silvered on the outside to shield the occupants from prying eyes. The glass had been replaced with bulletproof panes when they had first moved in. Jim's business makes him enemies, a fact of life that pleases Sebastian no end. It gives him purpose, being Jim's bodyguard and driver, not to mention <em>lover</em>, something that Mycroft had never understood.</p><p>When he thinks about it, he is still amazed that Jim had been willing to go to all that effort of subverting him. It is rather flattering.</p><p>"I chose you, Seb. I've always known that Mycroft Holmes set you on me; it was rather fun at first to use you to feed him whatever disinformation I wanted. My lovely spy… You do know that I've done my very best to further your career in the service. Even to the point of being willing to let you go off and do your thing in Afghanistan after Eton. All part of your cover."</p><p>When Sebastian had returned to MI6 after the SRR, Mycroft had been adamant that he re-establish contact with Jim, believing him to be utterly loyal. What a pompous git. From the moment he'd crossed the threshold of Jim's estate in Kilnaborris, Sebastian had decided to tell the truth, only to be shocked by the discovery that Jim had always known. From that day forward, he's been willing to do whatever was necessary to be with Jim, even if it had eventually cost him his job with the service, and Mycroft Holmes' undying enmity.</p><p>When he returns to the bedroom, Jim is now clothed in a grey silk dressing gown, propped up against the king-sized pillows at the head of the bed. Taking the tea cup offered by Sebastian, he gestures to the black chrome and leather chair adding an imperious command, "sit."</p><p>Sometimes it takes every bit of Sebastian's patience to deal with the man's dominance. He is not submissive by nature, not by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps that is why Mycroft had always misjudged him. He knows, however, that this is the raison d’etre for Jim’s attraction to him. Jim revels in the fact that Sebastian is willing to do what is otherwise abhorrent to him, in deference to the brilliance of that dark mind.</p><p>As ordered, Sebastian sits down, crossing his well-muscled legs and leaning back. "What's next?"</p><p>Jim looks up from the tea cup. "Down boy. You're just itching for a fight."</p><p>"You have to admit, it is a bit of a nuisance that Holmes topped himself just when things were getting interesting. What a lightweight."</p><p>Jim waves a desultory hand. "Agreed. I really did expect more from him after all the trouble I went to set this up."</p><p>"Tell me about it. It wasn't <em>you</em> who worked the miracle at his brother's townhouse."</p><p>Jim considers the statement for a moment, no doubt mulling the borderline insubordination before letting it slide <em>this time</em>.</p><p>"That won't go to waste, Tiger. There is something delicious about being able to spy on Big Brother, even if the little brother has left this mortal coil."</p><p>Mycroft Holmes' house in Knightsbridge had been surprisingly easy to penetrate. Sebastian still knows all the right people in MI6—the ones who could be bent and twisted to reveal the key code that linked Holmes' home security systems to the office networks. Once Sebastian had the knowledge of the equipment involved, it had been a simple exercise.</p><p>He shrugs contemptuously. "He's too confident; complacency makes him an easy target. You'll have to come up with a new plan, now that we can't use his <em>little</em> <em>brother</em> as leverage."</p><p>Moriarty puts his tea cup down on the glass night table, and lounges back to stare at the ceiling.</p><p>A bit irritated by being ignored, Sebastian prods with a question, "What about…"</p><p>“Shhh….Daddy's thinking. Be a good boy now, run off and clean yourself up."</p><p>Sebastian sighs at the dismissal. But he knows better than to interrupt Jim's train of thought, so without another word, he heads for the second (his) bedroom and steps into the en-suite shower. As he washes off the evidence of the blood, sex and sweat he'd worked up satisfying Jim, he wonders yet again what the man is really up to. He's learned the hard way that the Irishman will share his plans only when it suits him.</p><p>The idea had been to distract Mycroft Holmes with Guerin’s money laundering enterprise in Morocco and then the suicide-by-proxy murders—keep his attention focused on his brother, so that Jim's other plans would remain off radar. Sebastian has been waiting for those plans to be revealed, but somehow, the death of Holmes Junior has stalled things. Is that why Jim is cross? It should have worked; it should have been possible to string it out longer, leading to a showdown in a month or two from now, when the little brother would be given the choice of working with Jim against his own sibling, or seeing John Watson die.</p><p>
  <em>Annoying.</em>
</p><p>Exactly what this smokescreen is supposed to be hiding is still a secret, and it irritates Sebastian to no end that he still isn't being trusted with the details. And there’s all that extra stuff—poems, flowers—with Watson. All part of Jim's grand plan, or is he having more fun than is absolutely required …? In irritation, Sebastian scrubs his skin with a little more force than necessary, inflaming the capillaries under his arms and down his chest and causing the spray of water to sting. He wrenches the taps from hot all the way to cold and lets the abrupt change in temperature sluice through him, cooling his aggravation.</p><p>Stepping out of the shower onto the soft bath mat, he slips on the towelling robe and smiles at his reflection in the mirror. The bruise is starting to come out nicely over his cheek and he's looking forward to making sure that John <em>fucking</em> Watson will soon be sporting matching bruises of his own very soon.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter One:</p>
<p>Music for Chapter 1 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>You Belong to Me - Cat Pierce • You Belong to Me<br/>Devil Like You - Gareth Dunlop • Devil Like You<br/>Bad Drugs - King Kavalier, Chris Lee • Bad Drugs<br/>(link to playlists in fic summary)</p>
<p>If you are keen on seeing what the artwork above Jim's bed looks like, check out this  <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/190622414241/few-escape-the-gallows-jims-art-collection"><strong>post</strong></a></p>
<p>And this <a href="http://7-percent.tumblr.com/post/190643298319/few-escape-the-gallows-chapter-one-shhhdaddys"><strong>post</strong></a> if you want to visualize Sebastian's bedroom and shower</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Til a very late hour; and this keeper</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are seventeen steps. John knows each and every one by heart. The way the bottom one slants to the left and the way the twelfth doesn’t quite meet the wall—Mrs. Hudson always sweeps that step with a bit more ferocity, as if annoyed that she can't get at the dust that must fall in the crack. He knows how the fourth from the top creaks just so under a certain footfall. White painted oak steps, worn through to brown; the bare wood clatters loud enough to wake the dead.   </p><p>He knows these steps intimately. He counts them each time he climbs. Something about the routine appeals—three strides at the landing and then a quick turn to the right for the next set before he really feels he's home—it's part of the physics of Baker Street that have become his world, formed his universe.   </p><p>It's just gone past one in the morning and the flat is deafeningly quiet, thunderously so. Everything seems poised on the brink. The atmosphere is oppressive, a sense of static electricity hangs, waiting for something, anything, to trigger a discharge. The bedside lamp, still on, casts a dim glow that throws the shadows of his room into deep relief. He spots a cobweb in the corner that is invisible by day, which now seems ominously obvious.    </p><p>He's been having trouble falling asleep, staying asleep, because this isn't the bedroom that is used to sleeping in. The one downstairs… Sherlock’s bedroom. <em> Their </em> bedroom. He can't bear the fact that it is too indelibly Sherlock, and too obviously <em> void </em> of him, so he's decamped back to his old one at the top—reached by another set of steps, which also have their own catalogue of creaks and groans.  John stares at the ceiling, waiting for… something, <em> anything </em> to happen. The paperback novel—one of those useless thrillers that he'd once enjoyed for their mindless escapism—lies abandoned on the floor. It used to annoy Sherlock that John left books cracked open like this. <em> Breaks the back of the spine, John. </em>Right now, he'd give anything to hear that baritone chastisement.    </p><p>The sound, when it comes, cuts through the silence—the thinnest of squeaks of loose board grating against the riser on the sixth step up to the third floor. His breath catches as he strains to listen, imagining the hand smoothing, ghosting its way up the fading wallpaper as it ascends. No one else ever comes higher than the second landing. Not even Mrs. Hudson; John keeps his old quarters clean, not letting her carry the hoover up any further than her poor hip can handle.    </p><p>When the footsteps keep coming up to the third floor, he knows. Days. It's only been <em> days </em> , but it feels like <em> years </em>since he has taken a full breath; a breath where his lungs could expand all the way without catching, without feeling like the ribs caging them were about to shatter around the weight of his grief. And he doesn't trust himself to take one now. The footsteps reach the hall, pause in the inky darkness just outside his door, the silence stretching on forever. Deliberate; it's an announcement begging a question.    </p><p>He has questions, of course he does. He should demand answers. He doesn’t understand. <em> Where the fuck have you been? What kind of game do you think you are playing? </em> But right now, he's just so fucking grateful for the sound of Sherlock on the other side of his door, that he doesn’t ask. All he wants is to know he's alive so when the door handle starts to turn, John answers by turning off the lamp. In the blindness, he listens as the footsteps reach the side of the bed, and then the sound of shoes being toed off. He feels Sherlock slip under the covers, causing the mattress to dip beside him. Silently, John gathers him in his arms and holds him, fingers cold and numb, clothes chilled to the touch. He wraps the night around them.  </p><p>Dark curls tucked into his shoulder, Sherlock's head is buried so deeply that all John can hear is the puffs of his own short breath. Touch obliterates any immediate need to talk. His hand rubs up and down Sherlock's back, feeling the bones through the fabric of his shirt. John doesn’t ask, they don’t talk, but he can feel. Feel the ragged breaths, feel the silent tears, feel the scars. They stay like that, just like that, wrapped up in each other, for what feels like an eternity.   </p><p>Eventually John begins to realise that they are not getting any warmer. John gathers Sherlock closer, tighter, desperately trying to use his own body heat to warm him, to bring life back to his bones. Bones. He's just bones. Sherlock whimpers under the strength of John's grip and John knows instantly that something is terribly, terribly wrong. He extricates his arm gently from around Sherlock’s waist where it is still hugging tight and rolls him onto his back. He’s a doctor, an army doctor, he doesn't waste time. He turns Sherlock’s head and in the darkness thrusts two fingers against his carotid pulse.    </p><p>Nothing. <em> Shit. Fuck </em>. He tries again.    </p><p><em>No. No.</em> This can’t be. Suddenly the thread that's been holding it all together starts tearing apart, the knots start slipping, and John realises that the skin he thought was just chilled, cool to the touch, is actually icy cold and clammy. John reaches desperately for the bedside lamp, leaning across Sherlock’s chest which seems to depress terribly beneath him. John finds the light, flicks it on and then hastily scrabbles back off Sherlock, so he can look, really look at him. Beneath his scrutiny, Sherlock lies silent, still. His skin impossibly pale, the greyish blue of it is terrifying to the touch, bereft of all warmth, but then, <em>oh</em> <em>thank God</em>, there is a fluttering of eyelashes. Before he can take a breath, his relief is shredded when Sherlock's eyes open wide, morphing from the beloved blue into the dark-eyed manic stare of Jim Moriarty.   </p><p>“Hello, Johnny Boy.”    </p><p>A sob torn from his throat, John violently jerks awake to find the bedside lamp still on, just as he had left it before falling asleep, the space in the bed next to him empty.   </p><p>He’s covered in sweat, soaked through his pyjamas and his heart is racing in his chest. He throws off the duvet and grinds his teeth as the returning sorrow overtakes the terror. He smacks his fist into the headboard, using the pain to ground himself. This is real. Pain, loss, rage—what his stupid sub-conscious is trying to process about Sherlock in the nightmare. He needs to find a way to release it all. Nightmares are fucking <em> stupid.  </em>   </p><p><em> Get a grip!  </em> This is all too depressingly obvious. Nightmares—he'd come back from Afghanistan with a whole stable full of the blasted things. The dead men he'd failed to keep alive, the ones on the operating table, the trooper fallen on the roadside who he'd been unable to save because a sniper's bullet had found John's shoulder—they came back at night to haunt him. The wound had been more bearable than the damage to his soul. He didn't need the army doctors to tell him that his limp was psychosomatic; every night he wrestled with the specters of ghosts. Every day he'd been crippled by his memories of his failure.   </p><p>Sherlock's entry into his life had banished them all, giving him hope and a new sense of purpose, and then most astonishingly of all, gifting him with love.    </p><p>"He's DEAD."    </p><p>John says it, loud enough to echo a bit in the room.    </p><p><em> He's dead. </em> John has to keep repeating it even if it's only in his own head. He knows that the nightmares are just the start of trying to make sense of it all. It's only reasonable to expect them to return now that Sherlock is gone. John struggles to get his breathing back under control. He is not, <em> not </em> going to let this end up in tears. Instead, he lets his rage at Moriarty take hold, dragging him out of the pit of despair and back into the realm of revenge. That was what the dream was telling him. It's Moriarty's fault and he'd going to pay for it. Whatever it takes, however long it needs to be, John is going to see that the Irishman gets his due. <em> Focus, </em>he tells himself.    </p><p>The air starts to chill the sweat and his body reacts with a shiver. Adrenaline from the nightmare drains away, leaving him bereft in more ways than one. He can’t just keep lying there. He needs to get warm, and the empty bed only reminds him of the body he is missing so much. Reluctantly he pushes himself back up to a sitting position and lets the sudden drop in blood pressure wash over him before he moves to stand.    </p><p>Down the worn stairs, he pads barefoot across the familiar landing and into the sitting room. The shadows hold their breath but reveal no visitors, no ghosts, just memories as the embers in the fireplace emit a dull glow. He knows damn well that there'd been no one in the flat, no return—just an over-tired mind playing tricks by resurrecting the memory of a lover climbing the stairs to rejoin him.    </p><p>"He's <em> DEAD </em>."   </p><p>Maybe if he repeats it often enough, it will get through his thick skull. Once in the bathroom, John sheds his sweat-stained pyjamas in a damp heap on the mat and turns on the shower. A bit guilty, he hopes that Mrs. Hudson won't be woken by the noise. As the water comes up to temperature, he takes a quick glance at the frosted glass to the bedroom beyond before tearing his gaze away, focusing instead on the clean clothes he'd brought down with him. He's not been able to bear going in there; almost the first thing he'd done after he'd arrived back from the pre-inquest hearing had been to remove all his clothes and possessions from the bedroom they had shared.   </p><p>Stepping under the spray, he slaps the control handle all the way to the left. Mrs. Hudson's ancient plumbing can't quite make it scalding, but he'll take every bit of heat he can get out of it, if only to erase the memory of that cold, dead flesh under his fingertips. One hand on the tap, the other palm flat against the tiled wall, he hangs his head and lets the water flow over his head, pushing his fringe flat against his forehead. The water runs down the sides of his face, through his eyes and over his cheeks and nose. Rivers of water mark the tears that have finally broken through his resolve. He closes his eyes and lets them flow.   </p><p>He knows he will eventually have to turn the taps off and get out before the hot water runs out. But it's still only three in the morning and he just can't stomach the idea of going back to bed … back to that cold, musty, empty room. Back to that dream. He screws his eyes tightly closed and tries to erase the image.   </p><p>When the water turns tepid, he gives up and gets out. Toweling himself dry, the scent of Sherlock's ridiculously expensive shampoo, the conditioner, the triple milled soap is still evident, and he holds it to his nose, dragging in some comfort there. John wonders when he will be able to do laundry, knowing that when he does, it will eliminate yet another piece of evidence of Sherlock. He feels like Sherlock is slipping away from him, a once-corporeal presence is dissolving, disappearing out of his reach. Even his dreams can't conjure up the warm physicality of the man.    </p><p>It makes him angry. Why can't he dream of the good times? The shared laughter, the exhilaration of <em> T </em> <em> he Work </em>, the ease and comfort of their domesticity? Instead of dead, lifeless flesh, why can't he dream about their intimacy, when heat and passion had ignited things in both of them that kept their respective demons at bay?  </p><p>Losing Sherlock should be like an amputation. He should have phantom sensation, nerve endings that once connected him to Sherlock should still be sending signals to John's brain. Why can't he conjure up the image of their love to combat these stupid nightmares?   </p><p>He puts the kettle on and pulls up a chair at the kitchen table, laptop open in front of him. He stares at the screen. The fight seeps away from his bones. The blood-red visceral anger he felt when he had seen Moran, had tried to deck him outside the coroner's court, has slithered back to its dark recess. Lurking, but reluctant to show its face. He wishes he could summon that anger back now. Rage is much better feeling, a more comfortable emotion than the depression that has him in its grip at night.   </p><p>He’d seen red when that fucking arsehole Moran had gloated.    </p><p><em> Fuck Sebastian Moran. </em>  </p><p><em> Fuck Mycroft for thinking that Moran could be controlled. </em>   </p><p><em> Fuck Jim Moriarty. </em>   </p><p><em> Fuck Lestrade too, come to think of it, for stopping me from having a go at them both. </em>   </p><p><em> Fuck the whole lot of them. </em>   </p><p>Even the DI, the man that Sherlock had worked with for years, had seemed unable to take John's side. He'd pulled him off Moran as if that bastard had not deserved every punch John could land.    </p><p>How dare Lestrade interfere?! The man had locked John in the back of his car with the growled instruction to stay put while he finished the press statement and found out if Moran would be pressing assault charges. Fuck the law on assault. What about Moran's assault on him? What about Moriarty's getting away with murder?   </p><p>While the DI finished his official statement, John had stared out the car window in the opposite direction, to the gleaming glass of the Shard that juts up almost obscenely from the ugly blocks of sixties council housing surrounding the Coroner's Court.     </p><p>A few minutes later the driver's side door had opened and Sally had slipped into the front seat. She glanced at him in the rear-view mirror, a worried furrow appearing between her eyebrows before she returned her gaze to the front and issued him an instruction to buckle up.   </p><p>Sally had driven him home. He had been silent, angry all the way there.   </p><p>When they had arrived at Baker Street, she had turned off the engine and stepped out onto the pavement with him.   </p><p>“You are going to have to find some way to deal with it.”   </p><p>“What?” John had demanded, a mix of aggression and deliberately feigned ignorance.  </p><p>“All of it.”   </p><p>He had stared at her in silence and then turned his head away to regard the dark painted wood of the front door.   </p><p>“Do I need to worry about you doing something stupid?”   </p><p>He had known she meant his gun. He had shaken his head without looking back at her. Whatever he thought of Moran, John wasn't going to shoot the man.   </p><p>She had been silent for a minute, standing by the car. He had figured that she was just about to leave, to escape the uncomfortable silence, when she had spoken again.   </p><p>“I didn't mean about Moran. I meant…you.” She paused for a moment as if uncertain as to whether to continue, but then pressed on. “I had a friend on the force once, when I was younger, a good friend. We both were just out of Hendon. Graduated together. Seemed fine at first; everything you do is exciting when you first start." </p><p>"Get to the point, Sally, or leave," John had snapped. </p><p>"Then my friend started to withdraw—no big signs that anything was up, just … different. I didn’t really notice at the time, but looking back … He killed himself after a particularly bad night shift … sometimes the things we have to do in this job gets too much.”   </p><p>“He’s not dead,” John had whispered to the door.    </p><p>“That's not what the coroner thinks."    </p><p>"There's no body."   </p><p>"Body or <em> no </em> body. You're a doctor; all the blood evidence says he's dead. Holmes said he never speculated when he didn’t have the evidence. You have the evidence. So, you're going to have to deal with it somehow.”   </p><p>Seemingly having said her piece, she had been about to leave when he had surprised himself by turning to face her and asking, “so, how did you cope … with your ... friend's death?”   </p><p>She had considered the question for a moment before shrugging. “The usual. Went to therapy. Wrote about it. It was sort of weird; writing it down made it feel real. I wrote to his family, told them that I would keep his memory alive, keep doing what he'd loved doing. It took a while, but in the end, it seemed to help.”   </p><p>He had watched as she got into the car and drove away.   </p><p><em> 'Find a way. </em>'  </p><p>As he sips the tea, Sally’s words keep coming back to him.   </p><p><em> 'Keep his memory alive.'  </em>  </p><p><em> What way? </em> This, their way, the life they had built together was certainly their relationship, but also their cases, and without Sherlock there were no “their cases”. His eyes fell on a notepad hidden under an old newspaper. One of Sherlock’s, filled with his almost indecipherable scribbles. Phrases. Questions. One word written in uppercase standing out from the rest.  </p><p> </p><p><strong>PINK </strong> </p><p> </p><p>John allows the memory of that case to flood into his mind, pushing the sorrow aside for a moment.   </p><p>He opens his laptop, finds the site he is looking for and begins to type.</p><p>   </p><p><em>I am not an observant man. Sherlock informed me of that time and time again. But despite my shortcomings, and quite frankly, to my utter surprise, he chose me as a flatmate and a partner in his work. Whatever else, he saw something of value in me when I saw nothing. </em>  </p><p><em> We were introduced by my good friend Mike Stamford, upon my return from the war. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock had deduced my military service within the first thirty seconds of our meeting. He does that to everyone. It pisses people off immensely.  </em>  </p><p> </p><p>John pauses, scowling at the last line before stabbing the backspace key over them.  </p><p> </p><p><em>  <strike>It pissed people off immensely</strike> </em> <strike> <em> . </em></strike></p><p> </p><p> In its place he types,</p><p> </p><p><em> He not only saw things more clearly than anyone, he observed their meaning, too. He was a genius. </em>  </p><p> </p><p>The cursor blinks at the end of the sentence and John takes a steadying breath. The Wordpress blog entry form is pretty easy to use, but making this public is a big step. He resumes typing… </p><p> </p><p><em>They brought him in, you know, on the spate of suicides that had London in its grip. Consulting detective, that's what he was, what he did. The police called him in when they were out of their depth. And they were, with the third suicide in as many weeks—a woman in her 30's, dressed in pink— out of their depth. It was the most extraordinary night of my life… </em> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Two:</p><p>Music for Chapter 2 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Ashes - Claire Guerreso • Ashes<br/>Love Is Blindness - U2 • Achtung Baby (Deluxe Edition)<br/>Worship - Amber Run • Philophobia<br/>(link to playlists in fic summary)</p><p>If you are interested in how the music plays a part of this process, check out this <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/190671548971/few-escape-the-gallows-music-to-read-and-write"><strong>post</strong></a></p><p>And this <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/190685884236/few-escape-the-gallows-love-is-blindness"><strong>post</strong></a> for the inspiration behind the first scene in this chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Where he swings in the wind and rain,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>From over his shoulder, Sebastian watches Jim adjust his tie in the mirror. Perfectly presented in his light-grey Vivian Westwood suit, Jim cuts a fine figure of fashion, right down to the matching shoes. Sebastian prefers to dress like the soldier he is, nothing to attract unwanted attention. A sniper needs camouflage. His dark navy jacket is roomy enough to conceal his weapon, and to keep his arms free. The white button-down shirt is a blend, loosely cut to avoid showing off too much of his musculature. No need to alert any potential opponent about what could lie underneath the fabric.  </p>
<p>Sebastian grimaces as he struggles to get his tie knot loose enough not to strangle him. The one thing he can't hide is the fact that his neck is thick enough for a rugby player; unfortunately, it also means that the tie that Jim wants him to wear draws attention to it in an unflattering way. Sebastian casts an envious if appreciative eye at how well Jim's silver tie and matching pocket square completes the elegance of his look.  </p>
<p>Jim catches his admiring glance and grins back at him in the mirror then scoops the car keys from the console table in the hall and tosses them at Sebastian. "Ready?"  </p>
<p>"We'll be early," Sebastian warns.  </p>
<p>"Need to get a ringside seat," giving him one of his knowing smiles, which always makes Sebastian wonder what the hell Jim is not telling him. He constantly feels at sea when trying to keep up with Jim. It's annoying, not just because he isn't able to grasp the plot that’s unfolding, but also that Jim keeps giving him that <em>look—</em>the one that says he knows what is going on and that Sebastian doesn't. He enjoys it, making Sebastian feel not only stupid, but unworthy of his confidence.  </p>
<p>Jim is still chuckling as he gets into the car. “Time to have me some fun,” he drawls.  </p>
<p><em> Fun? What fun?</em> Sebastian grumbles to himself as he noses the Porsche out of the garage onto the tight Soho lane. Spending a whole day sitting in court listening to a bunch of people blowing hot air is not his idea of fun. He distracts himself by focusing on the driving.  </p>
<p>There is a bit of a jam around the Strand, which means he has time to think again. Sebastian is annoyed that they even have to attend the start of the inquest. Holmes is dead. Who cares about what a load of 'experts' think? While they wait for a bus to get back into traffic, he gets the courage to ask, "why is it so important for you to be there today? Surely all you need do is show up on the day when you are called to give evidence?"  </p>
<p>Jim turns from the window with a smirk. "What, and miss all the entertainment? You know that Big Brother is going to be there. I just<em> have </em>  to rub it in. This is me, <em>gloating</em>."  </p>
<p>Sebastian sniffs as he puts the Porsche into the right-hand turn lane that will take them across Blackfriars bridge, "Shouldn't you be careful? Remember what the brief said."  </p>
<p>"Yes." Jim is wearing an inscrutable smile that tells Sebastian he has no intention of following the barrister's advice.  </p>
<p>Sebastian isn't going to give up. "Remember…"  </p>
<p>Even more quickly, Jim cuts him off with a snapped, "Yes."  </p>
<p>Sebastian waits for the light to turn green and then accelerates a little quicker than necessary, the sharp increase in the speed of the Porsche a proxy for his rising frustration. As they cross the Thames, he blurts out, "Remember what he said, stick to the facts, don't try to be too clever. Just keep it …"  </p>
<p>Jim talks right over him. "Tiger. You wouldn't recognise clever if it got up and bit you on that sexy arse of yours."  </p>
<p>Stung, Sebastian trails off, "… simple and brief."  </p>
<p>Jim gives him a scathing look. "Where's the <em>fun </em>in that? Are you even listening to me? This is my first chance to fuck with Mycroft Holmes' mind. You think I am going to pass that opportunity up?"  </p>
<p>Sebastian says nothing more.  </p>
<p>Jim is enjoying this far too much. When they get to Borough, he is fizzing with energy. "Oh, and let's not forget the little pet. Watson will be there for sure, and he's so easy to mess with. I might just sit there and blow kisses at him."     </p>
<p>Glancing sideways at Jim in the rear vision mirror as he reverses the car into a parking spot at the rear of the court, Sebastian feels the flare of jealousy.  </p>
<p>He’s been keeping a close eye on Holmes’ sidekick over the weeks since the pre-inquest review. Sebastian doesn't consider him a serious threat but he’s enough of an annoyance, a splinter in his side, for Sebastian to keep coming back to.  </p>
<p>It's actually been ridiculously easy to keep tabs on the man, what with his constant updates of that pathetic blog he's started.<em> A Study in Pink? The Speckled Blonde? </em>And what was it again, <em>The Geek Interpreter?  </em>Wasn't Watson meant to have been an army man? Sentimental bullshit, all of it. But, it has provided a fascinating insight into the mind of the ex-army doctor and Sebastian spent hours pouring over the drabble while Jim had shut himself away in the study working on something he wouldn't tell Sebastian about.  </p>
<p>After Watson's last update a day ago, Sebastian had decided, just for fun, to post a comment.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> S</em><em>eemed like a bit of a weirdo if you ask me  </em> </p>
<p><em><b><span class="u"> deadeye</span> </b> </em> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Surprisingly, and a little disappointingly, Watson, who had been quick to take the bait outside the Coroner's court the last time they saw each other, hadn't done so this time; there's no response yet to his comment on the blog.  </p>
<p>When they walk around to the front entrance at half-past one, Sebastian notes the diminished crowd of reporters as compared to the hearing. The “great” detective’s star is rapidly fading. Six weeks after the pre-Inquest hearing, the news has gone cold. Soon he will be just another forgotten has-been despite Watson's pathetic attempts to keep his memory alive.<em> Not before time</em>, Sebastian thinks. He walks slightly behind Jim, wary, scanning surroundings, fulfilling his bodyguard role. None of the reporters seem to recognise him as the person who was assaulted by Watson at the pre-inquest hearing. His camouflage is intact, but he does get a glare of recognition from the silver-haired DI who is talking to someone standing alongside a coffee truck. The enterprising chap who owns the truck must be disappointed that the crowd isn't bigger. Sebastian sets his face in a contemptuous sneer and makes sure that the DI sees it, on their way in.  </p>
<p>The room the inquest is taking place in is relatively small, which has its advantages. Only three rows of seats for the general public means there won't be too much of an opportunity for them to get in the way of whatever Jim has planned. But at the same time, it's going to limit Sebastian's ability to defend their position from any cover. They are rather too conspicuous for his taste, especially as Jim is hell-bent on taking a front row seat on one of the unsightly transit-blue-upholstered chairs directly in front of Coroner. Sebastian rubs the heel of his hand across his brow as he takes a seat a row behind Jim, between him and the jury box. He'd prefer to have his back to the wall, but he doesn't want to be too far away from Jim.   </p>
<p>His suspicion that the chairs are going to be as uncomfortable as they are ugly is confirmed as soon as his arse hits the fabric. He sighs. It's going to be a long day.  </p>
<p>Just as he had predicted, they are early, but he's not stupid enough to risk Jim's wrath again this morning by pointing this out. So, he sits there in silence as the only other person in the room, the Coroner's Assistant, shuffles in and out, ensuring that everything is in order for the afternoon's proceedings.  </p>
<p>Twenty to two—the clock on the wall silently ticks away the seconds as Sebastian settles in to wait. This is familiar territory. For the next few minutes, as Jim is engrossed in whatever machinations are playing out via text on his phone, Sebastian runs through the layout of the court one last time. It's a habit he has, even when there is no clear and present danger. The sniper, the bodyguard—these roles mean he's never able to look at a location without considering escape routes, line of sight, sources of potential threats. Not wanting to be caught carrying a gun, he's left it in the custom-made compartment in the Porsche, relying instead on the ceramic blade he carries to take him through the obligatory metal detector that seem ubiquitous in any public building these days.    </p>
<p>Entrance security aside, there aren’t many issues with the non-descript modern building that reminds him unpleasantly of his primary education years. Eton had been a whole different level of architectural splendor. Still, the less he has to work with, the less any potential adversary has. Makes for an even playing field for all. Counting the seats, Sebastian sees there will be seven jurors, the Coroner, various legal sorts in the desks, and that leaves only thirteen seats for other witnesses and the public. Some of those are bound to be press, which makes the unknowns within a tolerable number.   </p>
<p>At ten to two, the room starts to fill. The DI arrives alongside the eccentric looking chap he'd been drinking coffee with outside. The DI leads the way to a couple of seats at the rear of the room. His back to the wall and a clear view of the exit. The DI is clearly no fool.  </p>
<p>Next in are a couple whom Sebastian presumes to be the 'medical experts'. An older woman in her fifties and a younger man, thirtyish. Their familiarity with their surroundings and their relaxed demeanor, chatting easily in a room reserved for discussions of death, suggests that they have done this many times before.   </p>
<p>Clearly the press, those that bothered to turn out for this ‘non-event’, are being held back until all the 'family and friends' have found themselves a seat. Sebastian snorts to himself; it's not as if Sherlock had many of either of those—the older brother and the doctor the likely extent. Right on cue, they arrive at the door. There's an awkward exchange as each attempts to be overly-polite and make way for the other. In the end, Mycroft's ingratiating condescension wins through and Watson moves past him without saying a word, proceeding to take a seat at the opposite end of the last row, away from everyone else who has already been seated  </p>
<p><em> Interesting, the good doctor is starting to lose his allies. </em>  </p>
<p>Watson avoids his gaze and everyone else's but Mycroft catches Sebastian scrutinizing the crowd. He wonders how this interaction will go since Holmes hasn't seen him since his obvious "defection" to Jim's side but he provides Sebastian with nothing more than a slight lift of his chin and the barest of supercilious arches of eyebrow. Mycroft Holmes is definitely unamused, but skilled enough to hide it. </p>
<p>Pity, Sebastian thinks, he was hoping for a bit more of a reaction. </p>
<p>The rest of the seats then fill with members of the press and a motley crew of what Sebastian can only describe as 'the great unwashed', members of the public, Sherlock Holmes’ ‘aficionados’. Sebastian thinks that blog of Watson’s must be gaining some traction.   </p>
<p>It takes a few minutes but they all finally settle down into their seats with quiet murmurs.  </p>
<p>Then with a blaze of red hair, and an authoritative air, the Coroner sweeps into the room and Sebastian is momentarily thrown; this isn't the one who had managed the pre-inquest review. As she takes her seat at the front of the room, she addresses the assembly.  </p>
<p>“Good morning, everyone. My name is Alison Thompson. Thank you for all being here today. Firstly, I would like to express my apologies on behalf of the court that Coroner Williams could not continue with this inquest. Unfortunately, there was a sudden family emergency last night which means she could not be present today. In light of the public interest in the outcome, I have decided to take the inquest myself.”  </p>
<p>Sebastian glances at Jim; this has his handwriting all over it, but it appears that the information has come as a surprise to him as well. And, from the slight flex of muscle in his jaw, not a welcome one.   </p>
<p>“I have been apprised that some … events ... took place during and after the pre-inquest hearing that were … less than ideal. Please note that I will not be allowing this to happen in my court.” She finds Watson at the back with her gaze. “Dealing with the death of a loved one is an extremely difficult thing, and wanting to find someone to blame is completely understandable; however, the sole purpose of these proceedings is to ascertain the identity of the deceased, and how, when and where they came by their death. Neither I as the Senior Coroner conducting the investigation, nor the jury who I will ask to join us in a moment, may express any opinion on any matter other than that.”  </p>
<p>The reason for Jim’s dislike reveals itself with her next words.  </p>
<p>“When you are called as a witness in my court,” her gaze moves from Watson at the back of the room to Jim lounging in his chair in front of her, “your role is to answer the questions I ask and provide no additional commentary.”   </p>
<p><em> Oooh</em><em>, impressive, </em>Sebastian thinks, <em>she’s ‘made’ Jim already. She’s going to be a force to be reckoned with—not quite the appreciative audience Jim would have hoped for. </em>Sebastian quickly schools his features to ensure that Jim doesn’t catch the slight flicker of glee.  </p>
<p>Watson, ever the dutiful pet, nods at her words. Jim being Jim, raises his eyebrows and his palms in mock innocence.  </p>
<p>“And when you are not on the stand,” she stares him back down, “you will not say a word or do anything to distract from the proceedings.”  </p>
<p>Feigning boredom, Jim pulls his mobile out of his pocket and starts to type.   </p>
<p>“... and just a reminder that all mobile devices are to remain turned <em>off </em>for the duration of the proceedings.”  </p>
<p>She waits, watching, while Jim finishes the message and then exaggeratedly pokes the off icon and returns the phone to his pocket. The Coroner then nods and asks the Assistant to show the jury in, swearing each one of them in by turn … "inquire into the death" … "true determination according to the evidence"<em> … </em><em>Blah, blah, blah, can’t they get on with this already? </em>  </p>
<p>The jury consists of four men and three women. Honest, boring types the lot of them, if looks are anything to go by. He isn't keen that Jim’s choice of seating means that his back is to them all, preventing him from keeping an eye on them. Realistically though, he figures <em> they  </em>should be the least of his worries.  </p>
<p>Now at least they can finally start.  </p>
<p>The Coroner sweeps the room with a glance as she says, “For the record, I am both a qualified doctor and barrister. I have worked as an inner-city GP for eighteen years and practiced as a barrister in criminal law. I have previously held two Coroner positions, in Cheltenham and Woking and am the Senior Coroner hearing this inquest into the disappearance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, of Baker Street, London. This Inquest hearing is taking place in court Number One at the Southwark Coroner’s Court. The event we are to examine took place in the former St Thomas’s church in Southwark.   </p>
<p>"I should remind all assembled here today that an inquest is a process by which a court hears evidence, so that a Coroner or jury can make findings of fact and come to a determination about a death. Despite the setting for this hearing being in a court, nobody is on trial here. An inquest does not decide matters of criminal or civil liability. This inquest will examine the key issues for a coroner: who died, when they died, where they died and how they died. I hope that the key issues around how they died will be explored and answers provided that will give some comfort to the family of the deceased.”  </p>
<p>“The first witness is Mister Philip Anderson." Sebastian watches as the weedy-looking guy sitting alongside Lestrade moves to the witness desk and is sworn in. The Coroner then asks, "Would you please give your full name and credentials for the court?”  </p>
<p>“Erm, my name is Philip Michael Anderson, I am a Senior Crime Scene Officer currently attached to the Forensic Service, working with the Metropolitan Police's Major Investigation Teams." </p>
<p>"Thank you, Mister Anderson. I think you also understand that you are giving evidence in your capacity as Crime Scene Officer on the investigation into the disappearance of Sherlock Holmes?”  </p>
<p>“That’s correct, ma'm, yes,” the CSO nods. </p>
<p>“Thank you. Mister Anderson, you have prepared a report, which I understand you have with you, and I will be referring to parts of that and the report compiled by Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade whom we will hear from later in the day. May we turn, then, to the basic facts of the investigation; On November 3rd of this year, the Southwark police department received a call from a Mister Mark Hughes, a worker at the Old Operating Theatre Museum, that a large volume of what appeared to be blood had been found in a location identified as the Old Operating Theatre, a restored medical facility located inside the attic of the early eighteenth-century church of the old St Thomas' Hospital. Upon arrival, the local police constable confirmed that the substance was indeed blood and contacted New Scotland Yard.”  </p>
<p>The Coroner turns to the Assistant and asks for a plan of the location to be put up on the screen.  </p>
<p>“Do you see here, Mister Anderson, a plan prepared by the Computer Aided Modelling Bureau, and to orientate ourselves, this is the layout of the Old Operating Theatre.”  </p>
<p>The CSO nods, and then leans closer to the microphone to pronounce a breathy, “Yes.”  </p>
<p>“In this area we see the sunken floor of the theatre and the rows of spectator seating rising above in a semi-circle around it. Could you describe the evidence processed from the scene and where it was found?”  </p>
<p>He clears his throat and then explains, "There was one blood pool which had appeared to originate from the operating table and had spread widely." He nods to the Coroner's Assistant, who touches the laptop pad, replacing the diagram with a photo. "We took samples from six different places in the pool, to ascertain whether it came from one or multiple sources."  </p>
<p>"Were there any other blood stains at the scene?"  </p>
<p>"No, ma'am. No bloody footprints, or any other evidence. When we analysed the blood in the lab, it was found to be fresh, ruling out the potential that someone could have spilled a sample of transfused blood. Storing red blood changes the character and makes it detectable."  </p>
<p>"So, please summarise your findings."  </p>
<p>"My report concluded that the blood was from a single source, that it had been shed<em> in situ</em>, and that the DNA, when tested, indicated it was from Mister Sherlock Holmes."   </p>
<p>"Can you give us an approximate time when the blood was shed?"  </p>
<p>The CSO nods. "Yes. Fresh blood deteriorates at a measurable rate. In the temperature that was recorded at the crime scene, testing suggests that it was lost sometime between the hours of midnight and three o'clock in the morning."   </p>
<p>"Thank you, Mister Anderson; that is all. You may leave the stand."  </p>
<p>The CSO nods and vacates the chair. As he walks back towards his seat next to the DI, Anderson looks back towards Watson, and Sebastian sees the tense set of shoulders and a scowl on the doctor's face. </p>
<p><em> O</em><em>bviously t</em><em>here is no love lost between those two. </em>Sebastian wonders how he can turn that fact to his own advantage.  </p>
<p>The next witness is called: Doctor Sarah Kaufmann, a senior trauma clinician with the Guy's and St. Thomas NHS Trust. Sebastian uses the time as the petite and soberly dressed doctor is sworn in to scan the audience. Jim is turned in his seat, lounging sideways so he can keep Mycroft Holmes in clear view. His stance is provocative, as is the expression on his face. Sebastian has to swallow his unease; it never makes sense to him to provoke someone quite so obviously as Jim is doing right now.  </p>
<p>The older Holmes keeps looking straight ahead. </p>
<p>The Coroner resumes her questioning. “Doctor Kaufmann, you have seen the crime scene photographs of the blood pool. Can you estimate the quantity involved?"  </p>
<p>The doctor nods, pushing her dark shoulder-length hair back from her face. "Looking at the depth and spread, it is possible to estimate the quantity at somewhere between two to two point two five liters of blood."  </p>
<p>The Coroner presses on. "In your opinion, is the volume of blood found at the scene consistent with a fatal wound?”  </p>
<p>“I can’t provide a definitive opinion on that. However, an adult male weighing between sixty-five to seventy kilos has an average of five liters of blood volume. At the very least, a person who had lost the amount of blood found at the scene would have lost consciousness and be in hypovolemic shock.”  </p>
<p>"Could you explain to the jury what this means, in layman's terms?"  </p>
<p>The doctor turns to the seven of them. "Hypovolemic shock is a life-threatening condition that results when you lose more than 20 percent—one-fifth—of your body's blood or fluid supply. This severe fluid loss makes it impossible for the heart to pump a sufficient amount of blood to your body. Hypovolemic shock can lead to organ failure and death."  </p>
<p>The doctor turns back to the front and the Coroner continues with her questioning. “In that case, given the estimated blood loss, in your opinion, could a victim of this volume of blood loss possibly survive?"  </p>
<p>"Yes, which is why I said it might not be fatal. However, survival would be possible only if they received immediate emergency medical care—hospitalisation to stem the bleeding, immediate transfusion with a combination of blood products, most likely trauma resuscitation measures."  </p>
<p>"Thank you, Doctor Kauffman. That is all for now."  </p>
<p>Sebastian has been watching Watson's face throughout the doctor's testimony. He is pale, his expression set. He shakes his head, clearly not happy with the rather damning conclusion of the medical expert. Sebastian shifts his chair in such a way that it makes a loud scrape across the tiled floor, making half the eyes of the court's inhabitants turn in his direction. Luckily, Watson is one of those, and Sebastian locks gazes with him, mouthing silently the word, "DEAD," and is gratified to see the flare of anger redden Watson's face.   </p>
<p>He continues the staring match as the next medical professional is sworn in, a younger man, thirty-ish.   </p>
<p>"Doctor Banderinike, you are a medical consultant for the Metropolitan Police, attached to the Control Room for all 999 calls in the London area, is that correct?"  </p>
<p>"Yes, ma'am." The dark-skinned Sri Lankan native smiles at the jury. "It's my job to assess the degree of urgency involved, and to assist the call handlers in dispatch, be it CFR…"  </p>
<p>She interrupts. "Could you please use the terms in full rather than the initials."  </p>
<p>"Sorry, ma'am—CFR stands for Community First Responders. To use resources appropriately, the Control Room has to make decisions about whether to send ambulances for patient transport, or to include paramedics or Specialist Advanced Paramedics."  </p>
<p>"Can you advise the court what you found when you analysed the 999 calls during the period of ten pm and three am on the night in question?"  </p>
<p>"Yes. During that time, there were no calls regarding a patient whose injuries involved a blood loss of that quantity. And there were also no admissions to a London hospital of such a patient on a walk-in or self-admitted basis, either."  </p>
<p>The Coroner turns to the jury. "We have heard that there is no physical evidence that a person bleeding at that level left the crime scene unaided." Looking back at the witness, she asks, "In your opinion, could an unqualified civilian save a patient with such a significant amount of blood loss?"  </p>
<p>"No. Well, they would need a miracle. Without training, without the skills to stop this sort of blood loss with surgery, no one who isn't an expert could do it, and it would need to be done in a hospital. And there is no evidence of that happening on the night."   </p>
<p>"Thank you, Doctor Banderinike. That's all for now."  </p>
<p>By this stage, Watson has removed his gaze from the proceedings and is sitting with his head in his hands. Sebastian smiles as the Coroner speaks into the microphone. "We have time for one more witness before I will adjourn proceedings. I call Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade to the stand.” </p>
<p>The DI settles himself in.  </p>
<p>"Detective Inspector, you have worked with Mister Sherlock Holmes for how many years?"  </p>
<p>"Um…six, ma'am."  </p>
<p>"And in that time, you found him to be a valuable asset when it came to detecting and solving crimes?"  </p>
<p>"Yes. His record—and my team's clear up rate—are evidence of that fact."  </p>
<p>"I appreciate that this may be difficult to deal with an inquest into the possible death of a colleague, but your testimony as the investigating officer is crucial to the jury's decision today."  </p>
<p>The DI nods, grim-faced. "I understand."  </p>
<p>"I understand that you had been working on a number of unsolved cases prior to the night in question. Your report described these as 'serial suicides'. Can you explain the meaning of this term?"  </p>
<p>"There had been two instances of individuals committing suicide in the preceding three days, and another a week prior. In all cases the victims appeared to have been convinced to take their own lives by another individual. That individual had been sending clues to the suicides to Mister Holmes in advance of their occurrence." </p>
<p>"Can you tell us something about Mister Holmes' state of mind on the last day that you saw him?"  </p>
<p>"Annoyed. Frustrated. He'd not been able to prevent the last of the deaths at Sky Garden, even though he'd managed to predict it in advance."   </p>
<p>"DI Lestrade, do you have any reason to believe that Mister Holmes might have been depressed by his failure to solve these cases, or to prevent this last death?"  </p>
<p> "Um, look, I'm really not sure. Sherlock ... sorry, Mister Holmes ... he is…<em> was </em>a complicated man. It was always hard to tell what he was thinking at any particular time." </p>
<p>"Thank you, Detective Inspector …" </p>
<p>"But he was upset," the DI cuts in. "I mean, he was always upset, you know, annoyed at himself when he couldn't solve a case. But yeah, I'd say he was upset." </p>
<p><em> Damn right he was upset. </em>Sebastian can hardly keep a grin from erupting. The great Consulting Detective was an idiot. Anyone who messes with Jim Moriarty should have expected to get his head screwed with, but somehow the idiot hadn't realised he was being set up to take his own life. Sebastian knows how much work Jim had put into making the previous suicides happen in the way they did. At the time, he hadn't appreciated the elaborate scheming that had been involved, but now that he knows the effect that they had on Holmes' state of mind, it's bloody obvious what a master manipulator Jim had been.  </p>
<p>The DI reaches for the glass of water in front of him and takes a sip. </p>
<p>The Coroner waits until he has placed the glass back down on the table. </p>
<p>"In relation to Mister Holmes' disappearance, could you provide an understanding of why a body would not have been found?" </p>
<p>“There are two likely possibilities. The first is the most obvious one: whoever murdered him took the body with them. The second is more complicated. If…" Lestrade hesitates. "If Sherlock had done this to himself, then it is possible that he could have arranged to have his body removed, so as to avoid distressing …" the DI looks guiltily towards Mycroft and then Watson in turn," … the family." </p>
<p>“So, the police have not ruled out suicide." </p>
<p>Reluctantly, Lestrade concedes, "No." </p>
<p>The Coroner frowns. "If it was a suicide, what about a note?  Isn’t that what people do, leave a note?”  </p>
<p>“It is estimated, and I have been reliably and emphatically informed on numerous occasions," the DI's lips forms a wry smile, "that only 25 to 30 percent of suicides are accompanied by a note”.  </p>
<p>There is a distinctive <em>pop </em>that disrupts proceedings, making both the Coroner and the Detective Inspector look over to the front row of seats.  </p>
<p>"Oops." Jim smirks, as he continues to chew his gum. He has turned around in his seat so he can look behind him. He is staring—really<em> staring</em>—at the third juror along in the boxed off area to the side of the courtroom. The middle-aged woman who seems to be the target of his attention is trying desperately to avoid looking back at him. Even from where he is sitting, Sebastian can see her nervously twisting a handkerchief between her hands.  </p>
<p>He's not the only one who's noticed the <em>connection</em> that Jim has made with the juror; Watson sits forward in his seat to get a better look at what is going on between them, and the look on his face makes it clear that he suspects something is up.  </p>
<p><em> Oh, Jo</em><em>h</em><em>nny Boy; you have no idea. </em>  </p>
<p>When the DI is thanked for his testimony, the court is adjourned until tomorrow morning. Sebastian is still smirking about that look on Watson's face when he drives the Porsche out of the car park, bringing it around to the front to pick Jim up.  </p>
<p>Jim has managed to position himself next to Mycroft Holmes and is speaking to him when Jim pulls up to the pavement. As Jim opens the front passenger door, he throws one last comment over his shoulder, "I am <em>so </em>looking forward to tomorrow. My day in court!"  </p>
<p>As Sebastian accelerates away, Jim angles the rear-view mirror so he can see the expression on the elder Holmes' face. He is still laughing as they cross the Thames on the Blackfriars Bridge.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Three:</p>
<p>Music for Chapter 3 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Two Evils - Bastille • Spotify Live<br/>Paint It Black (Epic Trailer Version) - Hidden Citizens, Ranya • Reawakenings Vol.2<br/>Play Dirty - Kevin McAllister • Play Dirty<br/>(link to playlists in fic summary)</p>
<p>For this chapter we have a <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/190738387106/few-escape-the-gallows-the-joy-of"><strong>post</strong></a> on the joy’s of co-authoring.</p>
<p>And some background on the location of the inquest in this <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/190753617026/few-escape-the-gallows-southwark-coroners-court"><strong>post</strong></a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. But what did that avail?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tags updated for: Violence</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Coroner begins the second day of the inquest with a brief summary.</p><p>"May I remind Jurors that you have a duty here to determine who died, when they died, where they died and how they died. Evidence heard yesterday confirms that the blood found at the Old Operating Theatre in Southwark had been identified through DNA as being from William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Medical opinion has been given that the blood was fresh and shed some time between midnight and three o'clock in the morning on November 3rd. That is the 'who' and the 'when'. The question of whether, in the absence of a body, it is possible to determine that Mister Holmes died was considered by medical professionals. According to their testimony, the quantity of blood involved makes survival highly unlikely without acute hospital treatment and no such treatment was recorded being given to a patient fitting the description of Mister Holmes on the night in question.</p><p>"So, we have the 'who', the 'where' and 'when' of a presumed death. What we have to consider today is the 'why'. In the absence of a body, this may be crucial to the jury's decision. Answering the 'why' is about determining the manner of his death. There are a number of options available, and it is up to the jury to determine which. In this case you, the jury, may determine it to be suicide, accidental death or a homicide. We can safely rule out death from natural causes."</p><p>She consults the papers in front of her briefly before continuing, "Yesterday we heard evidence from Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade that the police and Mister Holmes were investigating a number of suspicious deaths that appeared to be suicides. He also advised that insufficient evidence to prove homicide had been recovered from the crime scene at the Old Operating Theatre and subsequent investigation of the circumstances of Mister Holmes' apparent death could not provide this proof either. Therefore, without evidence, homicide is not a viable conclusion for this Inquest. That leaves the choice between suicide and an open verdict."</p><p>She moves her eyes from the jurors to the public seating. "I call the first witness of today, Doctor John Watson."</p><p>John isn't ready for this—to rule out murder before he's even had a chance to speak is outrageous. He’s never going to be ready for this; talking about Sherlock, but this makes it far worse. He manages to get to his feet and strides purposefully to the witness box.</p><p>Picking up the laminated sheet of instructions by the microphone, he opts for an affirmation. Swearing on a Bible doesn't sit comfortably with his secular upbringing. "I do solemnly and sincerely and truly declare and affirm that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth."</p><p>Once he's done reading, he looks up to see far too many eyes on him. Almost directly in front of him is Moriarty. His guard dog, Moran, is sitting one row back and off to the side, so John has an unrestricted view of him as well. The contrast between the two is striking. Moriarty keeps tilting his head coquettishly, as if he is trying to flirt with him and Moran looks like he wants to rip John’s head off with his bare hands. Given a choice, he would much prefer the head-ripping; Moriarty’s brand of psychopathy makes him nauseous. Moran—he’s known others of the type, soldiers who never hesitated to obey the most morally questionable of orders. Bloodthirsty, brutal, but still managing to remain just this side of the unadulterated evil space that Moriarty dominates.</p><p>John is at a loss to understand why the (clearly former) MI6 agent keeps trying to mess with him, and is annoyed that, despite his own best efforts to control his temper, Moran keeps succeeding. Doesn’t the man have other things to keep him occupied? Maybe that’s it though, the finger poking in the wound, digging around trying to find the broken nerve endings, is satisfying some sadistic itch that's not being scratched due to the lack of a convenient messy armed conflict. After his altercation with Moran outside the pre-inquest, John had reached out to a couple of ex-army mates to see what they could find on Moran (he certainly wasn’t going to ask Mycroft). But all he’d gotten back was something about a bloody mess in Kandahar, well before John's tour.</p><p>Moriarty in front of him, Moran to the side. And if he turns his head to the left, there’s Mycroft.</p><p>
  <em>Christ, what a trio!</em>
</p><p>Mycroft, the man who recruited Moran to keep an eye on Moriarty, to see if that maniac's brand of genius could somehow be twisted to serve the interests of the state. Ever since Morocco, John's felt very uncomfortable with Mycroft's refusal to be totally honest with Sherlock and him. He'd felt <em>used</em> and his trust <em>abused.</em> The fact that Mycroft had done nothing to stop whatever the hell had happened to Sherlock is something that John will never forgive. Right now, John's not sure which of these three men he hates more. All three carry a heavy responsibility for Sherlock's death.</p><p>The Coroner interrupts his train of thought. "Doctor Watson, you are being called here today not as a medical expert, but rather as a person who knew the deceased, Mister Sherlock Holmes. For the record, could you please state your relationship to him."</p><p>The question flummoxes him. How the hell could he possibly sum up his relationship with Sherlock? "Um… we were colleagues; I assisted in the case work. We were friends and we shared a flat, that's how we, um…met."</p><p>The Coroner looks over the top of her reading glasses at him, a bit sternly. "Is it not true that you and Mister Holmes were also lovers?"</p><p>John finds his cheeks are reddening, and he hates himself for it. "Not at first, but, yes." Is there a half-stifled snigger from the front row? He will not look, does not look at Moriarty, fixing his gaze instead somewhere between the clock on the wall and Molly Hooper, sitting right beneath it. She gives him a tentative smile of encouragement. Nerves of steel, Sherlock had once said he had. Perhaps in battle, but this isn't a battle, this is hell.</p><p>"Doctor Watson, would you please recount the details of the last time that you spoke in person to Mister Holmes—the date, the time, and the location—before telling the jury what you spoke about."</p><p>John leans towards the microphone. "November third, just before sunset on the roof of St Bartholomew hospital."</p><p>She looks to the juror's box, reiterating. "The day of Mister Holmes' death."</p><p>He's not agreeing to that. "It was late afternoon on the night when Sherlock disappeared."</p><p>"And what were you doing up on the roof?"</p><p>"Looking for Sherlock. No one had seen him since the previous night and he wasn't answering his phone."</p><p>"Had he done that before? Gone off without telling anyone where he was going?"</p><p>John's eyes flick to Mycroft. "Not during the time I've known him."</p><p>"But he had done so, previously?"</p><p>"Look, I'm really not the right person to answer that." There was no way in hell John was talking about Sherlock's substance abuse issues with a bunch of strangers.</p><p>"So, you found him up there, on the roof?"</p><p>"He found me, actually. He came to the roof after I was already up there."</p><p>"And you had a conversation?"</p><p>He's not going to give anything more to this audience than he absolutely has to. "Yes."</p><p>"What was said?"</p><p>"I don't really remember, not exactly," John attempts to evade the question. "I was pissed off at him not answering my texts and calls. I told him so, he said some stuff and then he left."</p><p>"What was said, exactly?" When he doesn't respond immediately, she adds, "Doctor Watson. Do I need to remind you that you are under oath?" There was warning in her tone.</p><p>He shakes his head. "You know, just … we had an argument, okay? I was upset that he had disappeared and he was ... well he didn't seem to care, or even realise that I would be upset."</p><p>"Please be more specific. As you may well be the last person to have spoken to him, we need to understand his state of mind."</p><p>"His state of mind? I can't tell you that, because all I know is what he did and what he said, not what he was thinking. He arrived on the roof. I asked … demanded… to know where he had been. He wouldn't tell me."</p><p>"And then what?"</p><p>"I took his EpiPen and threw it away." Shit. As soon as those words left his mouth he regretted them—he was making Sherlock look bad. And God damn it if she didn't go after that.</p><p>"He had an EpiPen. Did he have an allergy?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Did he look like he had recently experienced anaphylaxis?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Then why did he have an EpiPen with him?"</p><p>"I don't know and he wouldn't say. It’s one of the reasons why I took it from him." He's feeling overly defensive now and he knows it's starting to show.</p><p>She gives him a look that she really doesn't believe what he is telling her, but goes on. "Okay, you threw it away and then what?"</p><p>"I asked him about what was going on, what had happened the previous night with Moriarty and what he was planning to do next."</p><p>"What had happened the previous night with <em>Mister</em> Moriarty?"</p><p>"They'd had a … conversation in the morgue at Barts. It was recorded, and the police have that recording ..." He lets his words hang as he looks to Lestrade in the audience.</p><p>She brings him back. "A conversation. Did they know each other? Were they friends?"</p><p>"Hardly!" John splutters, "Moriarty is a murderer."</p><p>Moriarty's grins wide enough to engulf his whole face as a murmur of conversation erupts in the court.</p><p>The Coroner looks thunderous. "Doctor Watson. You <em>will</em> confine yourself to answering my questions and not provide additional commentary."</p><p>"Sorry." John is really not sorry. "Jim Moriarty is a criminal," he states matter of factly, staring straight at the man, at his smug grinning face, daring him to deny it.</p><p>"Doctor Watson!" The Coroner is outraged. "I am not going to say this again. Confine yourself to answering my questions or <em>I will</em> hold you in contempt."</p><p><em>Go on, throw the book at me</em>. Why should he care? But he chooses not to voice the thought.</p><p>The Coroner tries again. "You said you had an argument. What was it about?"</p><p>There is a period of silence for a few seconds. How the hell was he supposed to summarise it? "I wanted him to tell me what was going on. Why he was keeping me in the dark about the case."</p><p>"And what was his reaction?"</p><p>"Dismissive, abrupt," he shrugs. "He could be that way sometimes."</p><p>"And you argued with him?"</p><p>John scrubs his hand over his face and mumbles, "I told him he was hurting me."</p><p>"The court can't hear you, Doctor Watson."</p><p>"I said he was hurting me!" John practically yells it, the ugly words echoing off the white rendered walls.</p><p>"I understand that this must be difficult for you, Doctor Watson, but it does help us understand his state of mind. What was his answer?"</p><p>This, just <em>this</em>. This is the question he really does not want to answer in front of these people. Moriarty is grinning at him, as if willing him to confess. Moran is smirking in the row behind him. But what really grates on John's nerves is how Mycroft is looking <em>bored.</em> He's so angry that he blurts it out, "He said I made him weak. That it was best if he went his own way, and then he told me to leave. I wouldn't, I couldn't leave. Not like that. So, he left."</p><p>He can feel her gaze on him. He just stares down at the desk.</p><p>"Thank you, Doctor Watson, that will be all; you can step down now."</p><p>His head snaps back up. <em>What? Hell no! He's not leaving until he lays it all out. They need to know, Sherlock would never have killed himself, it's all Moriarty's fault.</em></p><p>"No, I'm not done yet." He turns to face the seven jurors. "You need to understand something. Sherlock would never have killed himself. All of this? It's just some ruse, some trick, cooked up by Moriarty to get between Sherlock and me. If he's dead, and we don't know that, how can we without a body? If he's dead, then this is a case of murder." He stabs an accusing finger at the Irishman in the front row.</p><p>"Doctor Watson! I have warned you that this is not the time or place to make accusations. Please step down from the witness stand."</p><p>His gaze swings back to her. "<em>Accusations</em>? Isn't that exactly what you're doing right now? You're practically accusing Sherlock of taking his own life, not asking whether he had any enemies who might have wanted him dead," John glares at Moriarty. "This isn't fair. He isn't here to defend himself, so if there is any justice at all left in the world, you will let me say my piece."</p><p>"No, Doctor Watson, I will not. Step away from the microphone or I <em>will</em> cite you for third-party contempt of court. A civil offence that <em>will</em> go on your record."</p><p>When he stands abruptly and starts to open his mouth to protest, she interrupts. "If you do not comply, I will call the court sergeant-at-arms to escort you from the premises."</p><p>He's torn, not knowing what he should do. What the right thing is to do. For Sherlock.</p><p>
  <em>"RETURN TO YOUR SEAT!"</em>
</p><p>Clenching his jaw shut in defeat, he does.</p><p>She clears her throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, I think it is timely that we took a break. Session will resume in twenty minutes."</p><p>John sits there waiting for the room to empty before he slowly gets to his feet and makes his way to the washroom.</p><p>oOoOoOoOo</p><p>John is in front of the urinal, just zipping up when he hears someone come into the gents. He lifts his gaze to see reflected in the mirror Sebastian Moran lounging against the door frame. Once the man knows that John is looking, he smiles and turns the lock on the door.</p><p>John stares back. “What do you want?”</p><p>“A conversation. In private, just you and me.” Moran walks closer. “<em>Lovers.</em>" He smirks in a way that fuels John's rage into incandescence. "I don't get it myself. I mean, what's to like? Was he a beast in bed? Is that what you saw in Holmes? <em>Seemed like a bit of a weirdo if you ask me</em>.”</p><p>"You bastard. You're the one who left that stupid comment on the blog." John knows what he wants. He’s known what he’s wanted to do since he went for Moran outside the pre-inquest. So, he pushes him, verbally as well as physically. “You’re just jealous,” knowing this will hit a few hot buttons.</p><p>When the fist comes at him in answer to his taunt, John ducks. It's one advantage of being a lot shorter than your opponent; it tends to throw their aim off.</p><p>John lands his own fist on a set of ribs that are regrettably well-muscled, and Moran hardly flinches. Instead, he steps back, and then laughs. "Oh, Watson. You'll have to try harder than that," he taunts. "He's blowing kisses at you because you're such an idiot that you let your man kill himself—another serial suicide just makes him <em>so</em> happy."</p><p>In a split second, John's rage boils over and he goes on the offensive. Briefly, in the first flurry he manages to land a few blows. Unfortunately, Moran then backs him up against the ceramic basin and gets in a one-two combination—the first to John's abdomen which knocks the breath out of him, the second collides with his nose in a crunch of cartilage.</p><p>It’s not enough to knock him out, but he crumples, hand up to his nose to stem the bleeding. He's still crouched on the floor tiles while Moran goes over to the basin, calmly washes the blood off his knuckles and then dries his hands at the paper towel dispenser. Moran wads up the towels and tosses them onto John. "Oops, missed the rubbish bin," he pronounces as he walks out of the door.</p><p>John's a doctor. A careful examination in the mirror tells him that his nose is not broken. He knows how to stem a nosebleed, so he does what’s necessary, standing there in the cold expanse of the grey tiled washroom with his head back for a good five minutes, paper towel pressed to his nose to stop the bleeding.</p><p>“John!” Molly’s cry of alarm when he emerges from the washroom is enough to attract the attention of people in the immediate vicinity including the Coroner who is making her way back into the court, coffee in hand.</p><p>Her eyebrows arch in concern. “Dr Watson, are you okay?”</p><p>The last thing he wants is sympathy so he shrugs it off. “It’s nothing. Bumped my nose on the stall door, that’s all.”</p><p>Despite his protests, a fair amount of fuss is made of him, particularly by Molly who procures a cold can of cola from the machine, wraps it in her scarf and uses it as a cold compress, making him hold it up to his face.</p><p>To be honest, he'd pleased she's there. Molly had dropped by the flat yesterday after the inquest and hovered in the doorway, seemingly unsure of her welcome. He’d been too exhausted for small talk and had been grateful when had she stated that the purpose of her visit was just to see whether he would be alright if she attended the inquest the next day. He didn't really have an opinion either way last night, but now, he’s quite grateful that there is at least one friendly face here.</p><p>She insists on sticking by his side so that when they re-enter the court, all eyes are on them. Mycroft takes one look and rolls his eyes, as if John had just confirmed his worst expectations. The effect of his entrance on Moriarty is different. After a quick glance at the visible damage to John's face, he turns to glower at Moran. There’s a flash of dark anger in that look, and John sees Moran's jaw clench. Despite Sherlock’s many proclamations, John is not a complete idiot and he’s aware of the strange dynamic that exists between the two men. And he does not give a damn about the consequences which he suspects will be coming Moran’s way as a result. If Moriarty wants to play the injured party, then losing control of his man could build some sympathy for John's point that he's a criminal. <em>It's worth the wound</em>, John thinks, if it strengthens his case with the jury.</p><p>As he moves to his seat. John passes close enough to hear Moriarty hiss under his breath. "Just you wait until we get home, Tiger."</p><p>The Coroner is watching the exchanges, and then nods, as if coming to a decision. "Ladies and gentlemen, I think we've reached a logical place to adjourn. Feelings seem to be running rather high, and we can all do with an evening to reflect on the findings so far. We will resume at nine o'clock tomorrow, to hear the testimony of Mister Jim Moriarty and Mister Mycroft Holmes."</p><p>John takes a deep breath and sighs, <em>just when I thought it couldn't get any worse</em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Four:</p><p>Music for Chapter 4 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Iron - Woodkid • Iron<br/>Burn the Witch - Shawn James • The Dark &amp; The Light<br/>Crossfire - Stephen • Crossfire<br/>(link to playlists in fic summary)</p><p>Check out this <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/190792402501/few-escape-the-gallows-cover-art"><strong>post</strong></a> for our heartfelt thanks to bluebellofbakerstreet for the stunning cover art for this pic.</p><p>And this <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/190811612696/few-escape-the-gallows-jims-soho-flat"><strong>post</strong></a> for a look at (what we think) is the sort of place that a consulting criminal would call home.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. He could talk and do -</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tags/trigger warnings for this chapter: torture, domestic abuse, knife play, blood and injury.</p><p>NOTE: While Sebastian considers everything that takes place in this chapter to be consensual, we know that true consent is not possible in a relationship where there is a clear imbalance of power and control.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Even before he gets into the Porsche, Sebastian can see that Jim is pissed off.     </p><p>Jim gives him <em> that </em> look and he knows he’s going to be in trouble tonight. Sebastian doesn’t give a fuck. This is all Jim’s fault anyway. If he hadn't been so keen on messing with Watson in order to win his bloody game against Holmes, the two of them would have moved on to bigger and better things by now. Instead of building his consulting criminal business, Jim seems to have been side-tracked. After being forced to sit in that wretched inquest all day, does Jim really expect him to apologise for taking out his frustrations on Watson?    </p><p>It isn't until he drives across Blackfriars Bridge that Jim starts talking. Whatever Sebastian's been expecting, it isn't the mildly voiced question, “What's wrong with you?”     </p><p>As he cuts in front of a car to get into the left lane so he can make the turn, Sebastian snarls tersely, "Nothing is wrong with me." There is heat, anger and more than a little annoyance in his answer, barely contained.    </p><p>With his peripheral vision, Sebastian can see a smile blossom on Jim's face. "Not yet."     </p><p>As he manoeuvres the low-slung black sports car across the junction and down onto the Embankment, Sebastian hears the threat in that statement, and a mild frisson of fear tightens the muscles of his lower back. A thin trickle of sweat begins to soak into his shirt.     </p><p>Nothing more is said for the rest of the journey, not even when he's parked the car in the underground garage, they've gone up the stairs and Jim's got his keys out to open the flat door. As usual, he walks in first. It's something that has always annoyed Sebastian; Jim's insistence on being first through the door, when every bit of his army and bodyguard training says it's Sebastian who needs to enter the place first and ensure it is clear of enemies wanting to hurt them.    </p><p>This time, he's not wrong.     </p><p>No sooner has he shut the door behind him than Jim is in motion. Slamming Sebastian's shoulder back against the metal, he slashes the edge of the key down the side of Sebastian's face, opening a gash that runs from his temple to his cheek.     </p><p>It takes every single ounce of Sebastian's control not to strike back, to at least try to fend off the assault.     </p><p>Instead, he freezes as blood starts to ooze from the wound. Jim leans in and says, "<em> Now </em> there is something wrong with you. And it's going to get a lot worse. People who interfere in my business, who get in the way, they have to suffer the consequences."     </p><p>Laughing, Jim turns away. After tossing the keys into the Lalique crystal vase on the console table, Jim saunters down hall. "You know the rules, Tiger. Disobedience will be punished. Make yourself ready in your room. You've got fifteen minutes, while I have a shower and get myself in the mood."   </p><p>Five minutes later Sebastian is sitting on the end of his bed, naked.  </p><p><em> The first rule—obedience </em>  </p><p>He curls his toes in the worn antique tiger-skin rug beneath his feet, trying to move the flattened hairs on the hide, to ground himself. Despite blaming Jim for the situation with Watson, he knows that he got himself into this predicament all on his own. He was the one who reacted to the taunt. He was the one who lost control. That's one of the exciting things about being with Jim; it demands a level of self-control that is positively, electrifyingly, arousing. He deserves this punishment for failing to maintain that control. </p><p>Sebastian's been punished for infringements before. Early in their arrangement he’d been in Eastern Europe taking care of a delicate situation; one of Jim’s business partners had found himself the subject of a counter-human-trafficking sting and was becoming far too loose-lipped in his efforts to extricate himself from the situation. He had been dispatched to ensure those lips were permanently sewn back up, figuratively and literally (for added effect, and because Sebastian had decided to have a little fun in the process). Job done, he had taken a couple of ‘days off’ before returning to London. Nothing nefarious, his penchant for plundering a willing arse had all but vanished when Jim had become a permanent fixture in his life, but he still enjoyed the atmosphere of the scene in Prague. He’d figured Jim wouldn’t know, and even if he found out, wouldn't have a problem with it.  </p><p>He had been wrong. His misstep had cost him three days of pain and humiliation, and had ended with him having to suture himself up in a number of uncomfortable places.  </p><p>The first time had come as quite a shock. But that, what he had done to incur Jim's wrath that time, had been the result of a mistake, not a deliberate act.  Not like this. He doesn't have a lot of an idea about what's in store for him tonight, but he knows it's going to be worse, far, far worse. His suspicions are confirmed as Jim strolls into the room, naked, towelling off his hair and tossing it onto the floor. He is looking happier than he has in a long time.  </p><p><em> Damn. </em>   </p><p>Sebastian slips to the floor, onto his knees and bows his head in supplication, and closes his eyes.  </p><p><em> The second rule—submission. </em>  </p><p>This is Jim's favourite position to have him in. Front on, unrestrained. Oh yes, Jim still likes his ropes and cuffs, cages and spreaders, but this way there's no way Sebastian's posture can be interpreted as anything other than complete and utter submission. And that's what really gets Jim off. Pushing Sebastian to the breaking point and having Sebastian just accept it.  </p><p>It's been a couple of minutes since he bowed his head, and … nothing. Waiting is getting to him. He can't see a thing, just the warm red of the room's lighting through the blood vessels that snake across his eyelids. It's what Sebastian hates the most, not being able to see, not being able to anticipate what's coming. It goes against his training, his very instinct and Jim knows it.  </p><p>That's why he demands it.   </p><p>When it comes, it's a whisper, a puff of breath in his right ear. Although Jim must be standing close, Sebastian can't feel the heat of his body. Cold. It causes him to shiver. And that results in a sudden back-hand slap across his face, so hard that sends him tumbling sideways onto his flank. He doesn't put his hands out to brace his fall, not allowed, so the impact of his hip and shoulder with the floor is jarring.   </p><p>"What are my thoughts about moving, Sebbie?" Jim's icy voice towers over him.   </p><p>Sebastian breathes into the orange and black stripes next to his lips. He knows that the blood from the cut on his face will be flowing again. It will stain the tiger skin, making a permanent reminder of his infringement. As awkward a position as how he's fallen is, he knows he must not move.   </p><p><em> The third rule— </em> <em> immobilisation </em>  </p><p>Nothing about what they do, what is about to happen to him, is your garden variety, patiently explained in layman's terms for polite public consumption in the latest edition of <em> Psychology Today </em>, sadomasochism.  </p><p>There's no scene negotiation, no safe words in what's about to occur. But to infer therefore that it's not consensual would be erroneous. Sebastian is here because he <em> wants </em> to be here, with Jim, a part of Jim's world. And in Jim's world, Jim has requirements for the maintenance of order. Sebastian’s not here because he fears what would happen if he left. Would Jim have him ‘taken out?’ Absolutely. Sebastian is a liability, knowing as much as he does. But that, the thought of his death, doesn't bother him either. He wouldn't have chosen to be with Jim if it did.  </p><p>“What am I going to do with you?”   </p><p>Sebastian knows it's not a question meant to be answered, or even a question meant for him. It’s just Jim planning out loud. Scares the shit out of people. When and if he ever deigns to do the dirty work himself, Jim milks it for everything it's worth. Most people who have wronged Jim are absolutely petrified of coming face-to-face with him. Knowing that they are not getting out of the situation alive, praying that it's not going to take too long, knowing that it will.   </p><p><em> The fourth rule—silence </em>  </p><p>Jim strolls back and forth across the rug, his feet moving the air right next to Sebastian's face. He braces himself for a strike, for a kick to the back of the head or one to his nose. Jim broke it badly the last time. And then of course, insisted it be fixed by the best plastic surgeon in the country. But no, Jim’s clearly in the mood to take this really, really slowly.    </p><p>Breathing deeply, Jim rests the arch of his foot (at least that’s what Sebastian assumes it is) against the side of his neck, pressing his big toe into the carotid artery on that side, deep enough to disrupt the blood flow. Only being on one side, it’s not enough to cut off the flow to his brain entirely but it causes the nerves to start to tingle in alarm, his heart rate jumping in response. Jim doesn't let up and the tingling morphs into numbness, weakness. It makes him vulnerable, more vulnerable. He hones in on Jim’s breathing. It’s a sniper trick, used to decrease heart rate by directing attentional focus outward just before pulling the trigger during diastole. It works. It always works, but this time it’s working too well as despite the pressure and the need to remain alert at all times in Jim’s presence, he feels himself relaxing.   </p><p>“Oh no, Tiger,” Jim admonishes. “No sleeping. Hold that pose a minute would you.”   </p><p>The pressure on his neck disappears and he hears Jim leave the room. When he returns, a moment later, there’s a thud as something is dropped next to his head. A bag. Heavy.   </p><p>His breath hitches, he can’t stop the tell. And Jim chuckles as he sinks to his knees. </p><p>Sebastian hears the zipper being pulled and objects, metal from the sounds they are making, knocking against each other, being removed.   </p><p>“Now what do we have here?” Jim muses. “You know, ever since Holmes chose this as his method of suicide, I have been wondering how effective it is. I know you told the lovely Detective Inspector that it isn't that handy for extended blood play, but I think that you have the stamina to make it last, don’t you?”   </p><p>And now Sebastian knows exactly what’s coming. The object in Jim’s hand must be a Lister amputation knife.    </p><p>“And do you know where I found this? There’s a lovely little museum that has them out on display for everyone to see. A few to touch. But only for the very special to take.”   </p><p>And despite Sebastian’s fear about what is about to happen, he can’t temper the rage that comes along with Jim’s words. <em> Still with bloody Holmes. The man is dead. Why can’t Jim let this bloody obsession go? </em>   </p><p>He bites down on the inside of his cheek, crushing the sensitive flesh between the incisors, letting the flood of metallic-tasting liquid soothe him as he chases it around his teeth with his tongue.  </p><p>“On your back, arms above your head. Eyes open.”  </p><p>Jim wants him to watch. Watch as he takes the knife. Antique. Should be as blunt as all hell, but the trickle of blood that appears on his thigh as Jim traces it lightly down the rectus femoris from his Iliac crest to his knee suggests otherwise. It's painful, but nothing he can’t handle. And he has no problem relaxing the muscles of his body into it. He knows, from experience, that tensing only makes things worse.  </p><p>Jim positions the point of knife in the space just above his kneecap and pauses. Sebastian’s eyes flick from the knife to Jim. Jim is watching Sebastian intently for a reaction, any reaction, as he pushes in deeper, through the quadriceps tendon to the cartilage. It's not as sensitive as it would be without all the damage it incurred during his years of rugby at Eton, but it’s ramping the pain level up significantly. His abdominal muscles clench reflexively, and a hiss escapes his lips. Jim seems to think that things are progressing nicely as he, head cocked to the side watching him, grins.  </p><p>Sebastian is more than a little concerned about Jim’s skill with this particular tool. Sebastian wasn’t joking when he said this type of knife wasn’t meant for this sort of thing. It’s too long to enable any delicacy. The modern incarnations (he’s had reason to see a few in use in his time) are more precise. They still do the job of cutting through muscle, fat and bone admirably, but they can be procured in a variety of lengths to optimise results and minimise … mistakes. This one. A relic from the 19th century, is not in the least bit optimal.  </p><p>Jim looks down at Sebastian’s knee again and his whole demeanour appears to change. Gone is the look of macabre fascination and in its place, pure hatred.  </p><p>"Thought he was so much better than me. Why? Because he chose the side of the angels?”  </p><p>A rush of fear courses through Sebastian as Jim removes the point of the knife from above his knee and starts tracing the skin underneath it, back and forth across the shin bone from the inside of his leg to the outside. <em> Shit </em>. He needs Jim to remember that it’s him here under the knife, not Holmes, lest he cause him irreparable damage by proxy.  </p><p>“Angels. Ha! He could never be one of them.”  </p><p>Sebastian knows the rules, no speaking. But in a move desperate in self-preservation he whispers, “Jim?”  </p><p>Jim’s eyes snap up on him, his lip curled in a snarl at Sebastian obtuseness. “I haven't forgotten you, Tiger.” Then, seemingly to illustrate his point, he rapidly slices deeply through the skin on the inside of Sebastian’s leg, drawing the knife back up with a dramatic flourish.  </p><p>Sebastian's forces his eyes shut against the searing pain as he feels the blood ooze down from his leg onto the rug below. When he opens his eyes, he knows what he will see. Not a straight cut but an incision at an angle, maximising the depth of the wound without the knife getting lodged in the bone or severing critical arteries. The same technique surgeons employ when trying to save a limb, preserving as much skin as possible so that it can be sutured over the stump.  </p><p>Already the angle is helping the wound seal itself. The flap of skin on top seeking the flesh below as the white blood cells rush to the site. Jim helps them along by wrapping his fingers around the wound and squeezing tight, blunt, square nails digging into the whitening flesh beneath.  </p><p>"Now, Tiger. Do you know why we are having this little chat?"  </p><p>This time Sebastian knows he's meant to respond so he opens his eyes, finding Jim's and nods quickly. The movement lifts the back of his neck slightly off the carpet and Christ it aches, having been tense the entire time.  </p><p>"I have Mycroft Holmes and the entire British government right where I want them. It's taken me years, <em> years </em>, to set this up. And you seem to think that a display of your infantile  possessiveness is appropriate at this pivotal moment."  </p><p>This time Jim slices the knife from the outside in, under the knee and almost to the end of the first wound. The same technique, the same flick of the wrist.  </p><p>Sebastian's head thumps heavily against the rug as pain sears through him.  </p><p>If Jim is intending to take his whole leg off, he's making good progress. Sebastian hasn't looked at the other instruments beside Jim but he's praying to a god he definitely doesn't believe in, that there's no bone saw amongst them.  </p><p>He's starting to feel a little light headed, the effects of the pain and adrenaline high adding to the drop in pressure from the blood loss. He can feel it pooling, cooling between his calf muscle and the rug. Sticky and thick.  </p><p>"Now," Jim's voice brings him back and he focuses, intently. "Feel free to keep your jealousy, your rage, your possessiveness. But from here on in, Sebbie, you don't so much as step a toe out of line in displaying those emotions. If I want Watson roughed up or disposed of, I will give the order, not you. He's the last piece of personal influence on Mycroft Holmes, now that his little brother topped himself, and I can't use him as leverage if you take him out."  </p><p>Jim pushes himself back off his knees and to his feet, regarding Sebastian with a measure of disgust. He tosses the knife onto Sebastian's belly and it nicks the skin before bouncing off and to the ground. After the threat of amputation of his leg, he feels nothing. Jim holds his hands up, rotating them as he examines his fingers, covered in Sebastian's blood.  </p><p>"Look at this mess," he pouts, exceedingly put out. "Now I have to go and have another shower." And without a backward glance to Sebastian, leaves him lying there on the floor as he exits the room.  </p><p>Sebastian manages to push himself up into a seated position, the pain searing as the flayed skin under his knee shifts against each other. He prods the wound as he catalogues the damage and what he's going to need to do to treat it. He's done enough battlefield first aid to know he can handle the suturing himself. </p><p>He's heard what Jim said. The gloves are back on and he is going to follow orders. But the moment that Watson is no longer of any value to Jim, the gloves are coming off. And Watson is going to feel all this pain and then some.  </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Five:</p><p>Music for Chapter 5 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Intro - Stealth • Intro<br/>JEKYLL &amp; HIDE - Bishop Briggs • JEKYLL &amp; HIDE<br/>I Feel Like I’m Drowning - Two Feet • A 20 Something Fuck<br/>(link to playlists in fic summary)</p><p>For an introduction to the remarkable Dr. Robert Liston and the knife named for him check out this <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/190898493631/few-escape-the-gallows-dr-robert-liston-and-the"><strong>post</strong></a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Had a long tongue and a long tail;</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I call the next witness, Jim Moriarty."  </p>
<p><em> And there it is</em>, John seethes, <em> an invitation to the stage for the man who loves an audience.  </em>  </p>
<p>Moriarty had walked into the room wearing Sherlock's belstaff, something that made John want to leap up from his seat and rip it off the Irishman's shoulders. Such a blatant act of provocation is clearly being aimed at him.   </p>
<p>At least Moran doesn't seem to be in on the game. He'd walked slowly in behind Moriarty, further apart than usual and proceeded to take his seat in the back of the room, perhaps banished for his participation in the gent's toilet scene yesterday. Is he limping? Or is it just wishful thinking on John's part. It almost makes him smile as he sees that Moran is definitely favouring one his legs. <em> N</em><em>o </em> <em> sympathy there. </em>  </p>
<p>As Moriarty sheds the coat and takes his seat at the front, John flashes another quick look at Moran. He sees a muscle in the man's neck twitch, but he refuses to return John's gaze. John’s eye is drawn to the ugly red scratch that has appeared on Moran’s face since yesterday. Has the man been picking more fights? Perhaps Moriarty gave him a bit of a bollocking for what happened yesterday. John hopes so. Something must have happened, because Moran's expression is hooded, cautious. It doesn't look like he's risking stepping out of line this morning.  </p>
<p>As Moriarty comes to the witness stand and sits, rearranging the microphone to his liking, just so, John casts a glance around the rest of the room.  </p>
<p>The jurors' eyes are all focused on the man at the front except for the one lady who had been the focus of Moriarty's attention on the first day of the inquest. She's got her head down, looking at her clasped hands in her lap. <em> Of course, jury tampering would be one of the talents in Moriarty's repertoire, </em>John thinks mutinously.   </p>
<p>Why the hell can no one else see what is blatantly taking place in this court? The vilification of Sherlock and the exoneration of his murderer—and the Coroner's temerity to say this isn't a trial.  </p>
<p>"Mister Moriarty, please swear on the bible or affirm to tell the truth."  </p>
<p>"By all means, your honor. I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth ..."  </p>
<p>"Thank you."  </p>
<p>"... so help me God."  </p>
<p>The Coroner pulls him up, "The last bit was not necessary, Mister Moriarty,"   </p>
<p>He smiles sweetly at her. "Oh, but I find every little bit helps, don't you?" And if the flirting Irish lilt to his voice isn't enough, the man then winks at her.  </p>
<p>The Coroner pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and appears to be … counting to ten. At least John has this in his favour; she obviously thinks Moriarty is as big of a twat as he does. The rest of the court, however, is drawn to the scene playing out in front of them, if the twitters and chuckles are anything to go by.  </p>
<p>John scowls at all of them.  </p>
<p>"Mister Moriarty, a recording in the possession of the police and a transcript of your subsequent conversation with Detective Inspector Lestrade, places you in conversation with Mister Sherlock Holmes in the morgue at Saint Bartholomew's the night previous to his death. Is that correct?"  </p>
<p>"Oh yes, such a sad state of affairs, the brilliant detective offing himself as a result of a lover's tiff. Tut, tut."  </p>
<p>The Coroner takes off her reading glasses and places them carefully on the table in front of her. "Mister Moriarty, are you looking to find yourself in trouble with me?"  </p>
<p>"Ooo, I don't know; what did you have in mind?"  </p>
<p>"What I have in mind is for you to answer the questions put in front of you or else you will find yourself in contempt of court. Do you think you can manage to do that?"  </p>
<p>Moriarty clearly doesn’t appreciate being spoken to as if he is a child and he regards her with his signature dead-eyed stare. But then, seems to think better of it. "Of course, Your Honor. I certainly don't mean to disrespect the Inquest or your authority. Please continue with your questions and I will respond with <em> nothing but the facts </em>."  </p>
<p>She thanks him, albeit with a wary gaze. "Then answer my question. Did you speak with Mister Holmes in the morgue?"  </p>
<p>"Yes, ma'am."  </p>
<p>"Can you sum up the content of that conversation?"  </p>
<p>"Of course… I talked about suicides, he talked about murders. I felt we had a special something. After all, we did share an interest in a certain ex-Army doctor, who I am pleased to see here in court today." He blows a kiss at John. </p>
<p>John bristles, stifling his urge to march to the front of the room and throttle the man. The Coroner ignores the theatrics and continues. </p>
<p>"The Jury is asked to listen here to that conversation." The Coroner then nods to the assistant who switches the recording on. </p>
<p>There a faint hum and then the sounds come clearly, piped through the room's audio-visual system speakers. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>M<em>oriarty: “You know, I think this one was the most fun. Although—tut-tut, Sherlock—I am more than a little disappointed that it took you so long to figure it out. You really should have let your dear John in on this one sooner. It would have saved us all a bit of time and effort… Dear John, did he like my gifts?"  </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Holmes: "If you are trying to romance Doctor Watson, I fear you have misjudged the man completely." </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>No matter how many times he listens to this recording on Sherlock's damaged phone, John feels every word as a punch to his stomach. Sherlock defending him, saying these things, having them played out here at the inquest—it's agony.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: "Romance him? Don't be so obvious, Sherlock. Though, I do wonder what it would be like to fuck him. A three-some, now that would be something to write home about. Or would you prefer just to watch? Do tell. Like to share?... Oh, a man of discretion? Our lovely Linda, here, not so discreet. Would you like to know how they spent their time …"  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Holmes: "The investment banker?"   </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: "Oh yes, wasn't that delightful? When I saw him, I just knew I had to have him. Just like it was for you. How very sweet of you, by the way, to take in a stray. Your little pet, saved from doing himself in…The damaged veteran, invalided home, no job, no hope, just getting the nerve to do the decent thing and put himself out of his misery. If you hadn’t intervened, poor little John would have killed himself. It gave me a whole theme to work around.”  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John feels like the eyes of the entire courtroom have just sought him out, looking at him. Some have distaste in their eyes; worse are those whose expressions are pitying. He stares resolutely at the weasel Moriarty.   </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Holmes: "And the leeches?"  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: "A personal touch. Something to tickle your fancy. Admit it, would you have been intrigued if it weren’t for that little tweak? You are SO CURIOUS.”   </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Holmes: "You do have a flair for the overly dramatic".  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: "As do you. Bloodied harpoon on a subway? Research? Really, Sherlock." </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Holmes: "So what happens now?...The people you killed.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: “Poor souls. Took their own lives, didn't you see?”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Holmes: “Not sure your parents would have seen it that way.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: “Sweet James and Margaret—lovely people. Not really much to offer the world, though."   </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Holmes: “Not much to offer you, you mean.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: “That's the thing about fire. It really does expose one’s priorities.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Holmes: “And your aunt and uncle. Not priorities either?”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: "BORING!...The game is over. I'm not playing anymore Sherlock."  </em>
</p>
<p><em>Holmes: "Oh, yes you are."</em>   </p>
<p>  </p>
<p>The Coroner interrupts proceedings. "A section of the conversation has been redacted at the request of the security services. A Public Interest Order was filed yesterday; it is my judgment that the content was irrelevant to the purpose of this inquest. Proceed," she nods to the assistant to resume the recording.  </p>
<p>For a moment, John's concentration is derailed, as he tries to recall the next part of the conversation as it had taken place. Then he realises that Mycroft would have done his best to keep his relationship with Moran a secret. Admitting in public that one of his own agents had gone rogue on him was hardly going to help. Seething, he glares in Mycroft's direction. Trust him to put his own interests ahead of Sherlock's.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: “Shall I tell you a story? A story of a great Consulting Detective who kept getting in the way. What do you think happened to that man?"  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Holmes: “I can’t begin to imagine.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: “He lost all his little white pebbles on his way into the woods and couldn't find his way back home."  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Holmes: "Fairy tales, children's stories. And you  do  remember how that all ended don't you? Because  I  seem to remember a rather nasty result for the old woman, something about being cooked alive ..."   </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: "True, but at what cost? Abandoned by the one you love? Forced to abandon the one you love. The most primal of human fears, and you are so terribly human after all, aren't you ...? But, come now ... let's not squabble like children over a toy we will both lose interest in, eventually."  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Holmes: "People are not toys."   </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: "Oh, come now Sherlock, what interest do they serve, save as puzzles to solve, organs to dissect? For both of us they are but a fleeting distraction from the monotony of everyday life. You and me, one and the same.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Holmes: "I am nothing like you!"   </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: "Really? Let's see…bespoke suits from Spencer Hart, custom made Yves Saint Laurent oxfords. Completely impractical for  The Work , but you'll never give them up. Your plumage. Admittedly, your style is a little lacking in … artistic flair though. Must be all that public schooling."  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Holmes: "You had the same schooling.”   </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: “And then we have the rules that don’t apply to you. Police files in the lab? Broken chains of custody? You’ll never get a conviction like that. Naughty, naughty. But imagine a world without any rules, my world. How high you could soar if your wings weren’t clipped.”  </em>
</p>
<p><em>Holmes: “Order is necessary." </em> </p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: “Order is a social construct. Sex and death are the only necessities.”  </em>
</p>
<p><em>Holmes: “What a very convenient world view you have. It's not one I share, I’m afraid.” </em> </p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: “No, you are not afraid. But where would you be without your death, your sex? How much seven percent solution would it take to keep big brain of yours entertained without the presence of all the horrifying things in the world? Or the company of your dear John? He's your opiate, but as you know from first-hand experience, opiates dull the mind…Come now, Sherlock, where is the gratitude for all I have done for you? Keeping you amused, entertained. Think of how much more fun we could have if we worked together rather than against one another. With your brain and my …”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Holmes: “Psychopathy?”   </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Moriarty: “Creativity… but no, there’s something that keeps you from crossing over isn’t there? Keeps you from slipping under the crime scene tape? The brave, loyal doctor, your trusted pet. He keeps you right.  HOW BORING . You're not like him, you know. He’ll always stay on the side of the angels, because he is too stupid to know any better. A moral man is a boring man, who lacks the imagination to be more than what society says he should be. You, on the other hand, are something special. You're smart enough to walk around all those boring rules. You just need just one little push, one tiny slide of a needle into your veins and you’ll jump. Time to jump, Sherlock; Toodle-ooo.”  </em>
</p>
<p>  </p>
<p>The recording ends. The Coroner turns to Moriarty and asks, "From that conversation, you clearly believed that Mister Holmes was suicidal."  </p>
<p>Jim beams a wide smile. "Yes, indeed I do, ma'am. You see, he couldn't deal with the fact that he'd failed to solve the case. He so wanted these to be murders, so he could strut about the crime scenes and prove to everyone what a clever boy he was. Most of all, he loved prancing about with his deductions to impress his pet, John Watson."  </p>
<p>"Mister Moriarty…" There is a warning in her voice, and he raises his hands in an admission.   </p>
<p>"Yes ma'am. Stick to the facts; I know. Well this is one of those facts. In at least one of those cases mentioned, the poor woman found at Battersea Power station, Sherlock was the prime suspect. I think the Metropolitan Police need to re-open every case he's been involved in, to see if he might in fact have committed the crimes himself, just so he could claim the glory of solving them."   </p>
<p>"Total Fucking RUBBISH." From the back of the room, John's voice cuts in, anger evident.     </p>
<p>"<em>Doctor Watson!" </em> The Coroner is livid. "You are not entitled to interrupt the proceedings. I warned you yesterday. If I hear one more outburst from you, you will be expelled from the courtroom."    </p>
<p>"But, it's not fair! Why isn't anyone questioning him? Cross examination? Where is the justice here?"    </p>
<p>"This is <em> NOT </em> a trial. There is no criminal case here under consideration. We deal only with the facts, and the jury has a right to hear the testimony of the last people known to have spoken with Mister Holmes."    </p>
<p>She redirects her gaze from John to Moriarty beside her. </p>
<p>"Thank you, Mister Moriarty; that will be all. The inquest will adjourn for lunch. When we resume at two pm, we will hear the last witness to be called, Mister Mycroft Holmes.”   </p>
<p>As Moriarty steps away from the witness stand, he's staring straight at John, making him nearly squirm with rage. The whole morning has been a total fiasco. Having trashed Sherlock's reputation—and been allowed to get away with it—Moriarty is clearly pleased with himself. </p>
<p>Will Mycroft try to reverse the damage done to Sherlock? John has his doubts. Mycroft has watched the morning's proceedings with his usual impassive expression. He's dressed in his usual three-piece suit, pompous and sartorially conservative, from the soberly striped tie to the matching silk square in his breast pocket. The contrast between his slightly over-stuffed figure and John's memory of Sherlock's elegance in his form-fitting Spencer Hart suits makes John's eyes prickle.    </p>
<p>No, John is not looking forward to Mycroft's testimony.  The man is far too capable of avoiding telling the truth if it is inconvenient. Sherlock and he had proven that point in Morocco. Mycroft's extraordinary intelligence is blended with subterfuge and mis-direction. John knows that Mycroft had tried to prevent an open inquest, but to no avail. To succeed he would have had to reveal the inner workings of the security services and its, <em> his </em>role, in trying to groom Moriarty. The idea that he will admit in court that Moran was one of his own recruits who's gone rogue, well that's not going to happen either. That both Moran and Moriarty are responsible for Sherlock's death is the one fact that no one in this courtroom seems to be willing to recognise, apart from John.   </p>
<p>His shoulders slump in defeat as the rest of the courtroom's occupants leave the room. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Six:</p>
<p>Music for Chapter 6 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Gallows - Katie Garfield • Gallows<br/>Hell to the Liars - London Grammar • Truth Is a Beautiful Thing<br/>Secrets and Lies - Ruelle • Secrets and Lies<br/>(link to playlists in fic summary)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. There was a weasel lived in the sun</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To say that Mycroft is not looking forward to testifying would be an understatement. He much prefers to be behind the scenes, not front and centre—he wouldn't be as good at his job, if he did.  </p>
<p>He had done what he could to prevent an open inquest, going as far as to call in a favour from the Home Secretary, to no avail. Unless he had been willing to reveal Moriarty's larger role in the scheme of things, he was never going to have been able to keep it closed. All that said, being called on to speak in public about Sherlock is high on his list of life-experiences to be avoided at all costs.  </p>
<p>Dressed in his favored grey three-piece, he has armoured himself for the task. Yes, he had been aware of Sherlock’s views on his fashion choices—dull, boring. But the cut of the cloth suits his frame (regrettably he is not blessed with Sherlock’s lithe physique) and the refined weave blends in well with the preferred camouflage of others in positions of servitude. He has never been one for a sense of the dramatic. That, he has left to Sherlock. He hopes that this afternoon's proceedings will be exceedingly ‘dull’ and utterly ‘boring’.   </p>
<p>The Coroner arrives and takes her seat. Looking at the jurors, she announces, "This afternoon we are going to hear testimony from Mister Mycroft Holmes, our last witness in this inquest. I remind everyone …" she takes a long look at Doctor Watson and Jim Moriarty both before continuing "… that the purpose of this testimony is to determine the deceased's state of mind. That determination should lend itself towards helping the jury determine whether the cause of death was suicide, accidental or whether the cause is in fact, not possible to determine, in which case an open verdict is the decision."    </p>
<p>"Mister Holmes, please take the stand."   </p>
<p>Mycroft walks to the stand, wishing he was anywhere but in this place at this time having to speak these words in public. He doesn't even glance up at the courtroom when he gives his affirmation of his intention to tell the truth. He has rehearsed the words he has to say often enough; his innate skills of misdirection honed over a lifetime will save him from any risk of perjury.   </p>
<p>Mycroft folds his hands primly on the table in front of him, fingers interlaced, awaiting the first question.     </p>
<p>"Mister Holmes, please state your relationship to the deceased."  </p>
<p>"Yes, Sherlock Holmes was my brother, my younger brother,” Mycroft confirms.   </p>
<p>“Thank you, Mister Holmes. And when was the last time you spoke to your brother?”   </p>
<p>“We spoke on the phone a little after three o’clock in the afternoon on November third.” Mycroft sees Doctor Watson's eyes fix on him.   </p>
<p>“What was the purpose of your conversation?"   </p>
<p>"Just a social call to check in, see how he was doing.”  </p>
<p>“And what was his demeanor during that call?”   </p>
<p>"Annoyed. He told me that the murder cases he was working on were proving more difficult to solve than he had anticipated. His attempt to engage Jim Moriarty, to record their conversation, had not produced the evidence he needed to convince a judge to issue a warrant."   </p>
<p>“Doctor Watson informed the court previously that Mister Holmes did not reveal anything of his future plans to him that day; was he more forthcoming with you?”   </p>
<p>Mycroft looks over at John Watson, whose expression is set—angry, almost ferociously so. If looks could kill, Watson's stare would have qualified as a murder weapon. "My brother rarely told anyone about his plans, least of all me."  </p>
<p>Mycroft moves his gaze to the jurors. By carefully studying their reactions over the past three days, he is almost certain that at least three of the seven have been suborned by Moriarty, and will give the verdict that the Irishman is seeking.  </p>
<p>The Coroner is not finished with her questioning. “Doctor Watson advised that he had not heard from Mister Holmes since the previous night; that he had 'disappeared'. Was that something Mister Holmes had done in the past?”   </p>
<p>“My brother was gifted, both in intellect and reasoning.” Mycroft is very glad that Sherlock can’t hear him now as he would never have heard the end of it. “But he also struggled under the weight of that gift. Sometimes that led him to unconventional behaviour. Spending time out on the streets of London was one of the ways he tried to deal with his struggles.”   </p>
<p>“What other form did these struggles take?”   </p>
<p>Mycroft clears his throat imperceptibly. “For the most part, controlled recreational drug use ... and on occasions, uncontrolled abuse. Resulting in his admission to rehabilitation facilities on a number of occasions after some more extreme episodes.”   </p>
<p>“Do you know if he had used drugs recently?”   </p>
<p>“To the best of my knowledge, he had not. After a life-threatening overdose six years ago, he had recovered his sobriety and had remained clean for the entire time he was consulting with the Met. I believe that he found the work very fulfilling and although he did not express it, that he was quite grateful to Detective Inspector Lestrade for the opportunity,” he proffers Lestrade a look of gratitude.    </p>
<p>He gets a nod back from Lestrade, who is sitting in the third row of seats.    </p>
<p>The Coroner asks the question that Mycroft has been waiting for: "Did your brother ever experience suicidal ideation—that is, thoughts about taking his own life?"  </p>
<p>"Yes."  </p>
<p>He sees a smile blossom on the face of Jim Moriarty, who mutters in a voice just loud enough to be heard, "that's my boy."  </p>
<p>The Coroner clears her throat in a warning, and the Irishman drops his eyes from Mycroft's. She continues, "Did your brother ever take these ideas further, into an actual attempt to end his life?"  </p>
<p>"Yes …" There really isn't any way to avoid this answer; the medical records of Sherlock's admission six years ago clearly state that the overdose was lethal and intentional. High as a kite at the time, Sherlock had been insistent in shouting that fact repeatedly at the emergency medical team who had treated him. "… on that occasion six years ago, that I have previously mentioned."  </p>
<p>"How would you describe his state of mental health during the week prior to his death?"  </p>
<p>"Agitated." As soon as the words are out of Mycroft's mouth, Moriarty starts chuckling, and everyone's eyes go straight to him, including the Coroner's.   </p>
<p>"Mister Moriarty, that is quite enough. One more <em> noise </em> from you and you are going to be escorted from this room."  </p>
<p>Moriarty mimes zipping his lips, and looks straight at Mycroft, who is startled by a vibration in his inside top jacket pocket. He'd switched his phone to silent before entering the courtroom, but not off. Given his line of work, turning his phone completely off is not a luxury in which he can indulge.   </p>
<p>The Coroner is unaware of his discomfort as the vibrations continue. She asks, "in your opinion was your brother depressed?"  </p>
<p>Mycroft shakes his head. "Not that I had noticed. My brother's previous episodes of depression left him supine on a sofa, lacking energy. I don't think that was happening; if anything, he was filled with excessive energy, perhaps in frustration at his failure to solve the cases."  </p>
<p>"Can you tell us something about the state of his relationships? Was he having difficulties that could have been triggering?"  </p>
<p>Mycroft wets his lips. He has dreaded this line of questioning. Resorting to deflection, he says, "My brother did not speak to me about his relationship with Doctor Watson. I respected their privacy."  </p>
<p>She looks over the top of her reading glasses at him, rather sternly. "I did not ask if you spoke about it; the question was what you had observed. Did you approve of their relationship? Had it changed for the worse, in your opinion, in the days before your brother's death?"  </p>
<p>She's not going to let him weasel his way out of this. He draws a breath, "When my brother and his flatmate began their relationship, I remember thinking that this could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever. In the early stages, it was the former. In the last week of his life the balance was more the latter, <em> in my opinion. </em>"   </p>
<p>"Fuck you, Mycroft!" John yells; "You wouldn't know what a normal, loving relationship was even if it smacked you in the face. You have no right …"  </p>
<p>"Doctor Watson!" The Coroner catches the eye of her assistant. "Escort him from the room."   </p>
<p>"Don't bother," John snarls as he gathers up his jacket and pushes past the other people seated in his aisle. "This whole thing is one big farce; I'm done."   </p>
<p>As he gets to the end of the aisle, and looks back at the jurors, Moriarty waves and says, "Bye bye, Jonny Boy!"  </p>
<p>"<em>SILENCE! </em>" the Coroner shouts.   </p>
<p>Mycroft's hands are still clasped, fingers interlaced primly together in front of him, as the Coroner informs him in a much calmer voice that he may step down.  </p>
<p>"I think we'll call a halt for the day. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. We will resume tomorrow morning, when there will be a summing up of the evidence that has been heard before the jury retires to consider its verdict."  </p>
<p>Once in the corridor, Mycroft casually retrieves the phone from his jacket pocket to see that he's missed a call—from a number that he does not recognise and has not been identified.    </p>
<p>Thumbing replay, he listens to the voice mail message as a familiar female voice announces:   </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> 'At the first stroke, the time will be one … o'clock, exactly.'   </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After the single pip, the message ends and Mycroft drops the phone away from his ear to stare at it, perplexed. Why on earth would someone send him a recording from the speaking clock? How could that individual know his personal phone number and, even more important, how could that person have hacked the security App that protects the number from receiving calls from unidentified numbers?  </p>
<p>He struggles to keep his facial expression neutral as he forwards the message. Anthea acknowledges receipt instantly—he is grateful to have such excellent staff. Perhaps they can unravel the mystery.  </p>
<p>His gaze then moves from his phone to Moriarty who, making his way out towards the building exit with Sebastian Moran in tow, pauses at the door to waggle his fingers at him. </p>
<p>“Toodles,” Moriarty mouths.  </p>
<p>Moriarty’s pause and Moran’s subsequent halt behind him, serve to impede Doctor Watson’s exit from the building. The Doctor does not bother hiding his annoyance, shouldering Moran roughly as he pushes past. Mycroft’s ex-MI6 recruit seems to stumble slightly, then averts his eyes and ignores the slight, however the force causes him to reposition his stance—Mycroft deduces an injury; something is making Moran favour his leg. </p>
<p>Mycroft’s sharp eyes narrow and his features pinch. Has Watson been stirring up trouble again? The doctor is straying from the script. His anger on the stand, his reluctance to talk about Sherlock’s history and the extent of their relationship, all predictable, predicted. Anger at Moriarty, understandable, as were his outbursts during the proceedings. But the escalating antagonism with Moran could pose a problem—yet another concern to add to his long list.   </p>
<p>After Doctor Watson’s overt display of sentiment on the stand yesterday, the altercation with Moran afterwards, and then his outburst at Moriarty today, someone had to display a modicum of decorum in these proceedings. </p>
<p>Discussing Sherlock's past history of drug abuse, previous suicide attempts, and periods of rehabilitation had been a highly unsavory task. Of course, it wasn't the first time he'd been called upon to give an account of his little brother's mistakes. It's the burden of being the responsible older sibling.  </p>
<p>Sherlock’s decision had resulted in the sort of spectacle that Mycroft had dedicated his entire existence to attempting to avoid. Airing in public the details of his little brother's misdemeanours and drug habits had been unpleasant. Messy. Damaging. Regardless, he had done his job, performed his required role.  </p>
<p>He takes a deep breath, glad that the afternoon is over.   </p>
<p>Collecting his umbrella and coat from the cloakroom, he leaves the courthouse. Right on cue, a black Jaguar sedan pulls up alongside the kerb and the rear passenger door opens. Anthea slides across the back seat to give him room. </p>
<p>As he settles back against the buttery-soft tan calf leather, he takes the briefest of moments to close his eyes. The briefest. </p>
<p>"The message," he prompts as he opens his eyes to stare through the darkened glass at the sharp outline of the Shard, lit up and gleaming in the south London skyline. </p>
<p>"Nothing yet," Anthea advises, scrolling through the messages on the screen of her blackberry.  </p>
<p>"The boys are working on how the security screening was penetrated." She glances up from the phone and stares straight ahead through the partition. "The originating number ..."  </p>
<p>"Yes?" he asks pursing his lips.  </p>
<p>"It's actually the BT Speaking Clock number. How someone managed to redirect it to call your phone is extraordinary."  </p>
<p>"Only one pip."  </p>
<p>"Yes, sir. It's been altered somehow. The IT team is investigating."  </p>
<p>"Any more requests for information from Montague Street?"  </p>
<p>He watches as an expression half-way between a smile and a smirk forms on her lips. "No, sir; but GCHQ is investigating a new hack into the National Crime Agency's secure system, and there has been extensive unauthorised use of the HOLMES2 database."   </p>
<p>Mycroft wishes that they'd come up with another acronym for the eponymous case system, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System; all too often his brother had been accused of using it as his own personal system. He'd done more than enough fending off irritated phone calls from the Metropolitan Police Commissioner about it in the past.   </p>
<p>He makes a decision, connecting the intercom to the driver. "Change of plans. Head for Number Eleven, Montague Street."  </p>
<p>"Yes sir."  </p>
<p>Anthea is looking at him in surprise. "Are you sure? Shouldn't we give more warning the first time you visit?"  </p>
<p>"No; I'm done waiting."  </p>
<p>She gets busy texting, her fingers flying over the raised keys. Nothing more is said until the car turns off Tottenham Road onto Great Russell Street. Anthea taps the privacy screen and the driver's voice comes over the intercom. "Yes, Sir?"  </p>
<p>She answers for him, "Round the block, please; left hand exit; minimal exposure."   </p>
<p>She hands over a keyring, with one rather old-fashioned skeleton type of key hanging from it. "You'll be visible street side for less than a few seconds. The lock has been recently oiled to improve your speed of entry. The keypad entrance to the garden flat is already programmed with your fingerprint."    </p>
<p>As the car comes to a halt directly opposite an ornate set of cast-iron gates between two townhouses, she says, "Take care, Sir."  </p>
<p>His eyebrows rise as he looks to her. Then he exits, taking his coat and umbrella under his arm.  </p>
<p>She smiles as she pulls the car door shut behind him.  </p>
<p>Mycroft's transit between the two houses is over in a matter of seconds; anyone watching him would know only that he is on his way to any one of the eighty-seven houses that back onto this private garden. The only access from the street is through the gate that has just closed and automatically locked behind him. The path is not lit by street lamps; the tall trees screen his presence even more as he walks south down the gravel path to the back of the penultimate house, Number 27 Montague Street.   </p>
<p>There are closed shutters and metal security screening on the flat's French doors, and presumably the black-out curtains are drawn because no light is seeping from what appears to be an unoccupied flat. The lights are on in the first floor flat, which Mycroft finds reassuring. It's occupied by a trusted agent who has taken on the role of protecting the unidentified asset in the garden flat who has been entrusted to his safekeeping.   </p>
<p>Descending the three short steps to the rear entrance, he reaches for the keypad, about to put his finger to it when there is the sound of an electric lock releasing. The slightest pressure of his hand causes the door to swing inwards.  </p>
<p>He sighs, <em> Open Sesame </em>.  </p>
<p>He deposits his umbrella at the door and walks down the Persian carpeted hallway, then turns left into the open plan living room. Bracing his hands on the Georgian pedestal table, he scans the extraordinary addition that has been made to the opposite wall.  </p>
<p>Dropping his head wearily Mycroft exclaims, "Sherlock, what have you done?"  </p>
<p>"Oh, you like it?" His brother pivots on the spot to face him, swathed in a blue silk dressing gown and face adorned with one of his widest, fake-est smiles. "I think it adds a little colour to room, don’t you?" </p>
<p>Mycroft raises his head and skewers him with a look. "You have pushed thumbtacks into the antique silk brocade wallpaper, stuck blu tack onto a Louis XV mirror and plunged a Victorian carving knife into the Adams mantlepiece. Do you have any idea how much these things cost? Safe houses don't grow on trees, especially when they are provided by a trusted family friend to ensure that no one apart from you, me and my PA knows you are here. Uncle Rudy is going to be deeply annoyed with you when he finds out and has to explain this to Sir Charles.”  </p>
<p>“Oh, you know as well as I do that he's been plotting to have the place refurbished for years. This will give him an excuse.” Sherlock waves a hand breezily as he turns back to regard his handiwork, “Anyway, you're going to thank me.”  </p>
<p>“I highly doubt that,” Mycroft sniffs as his gaze roams the spiders web of yarn, photos, news clippings and codes that now adorn the whole length of the living room wall and his brother flapping about in front of it. "I'm in no mood for theatrics Sherlock; It's been rather a trying day.”  </p>
<p>Mycroft turns to the sideboard to pour himself a whisky from a decanter. "At least he stocks a decent single malt."  </p>
<p>“Don’t be an ungracious host,” Sherlock prompts when it's clear that Mycroft isn’t about to offer him one.  </p>
<p>“Do you deserve one? Actually—on second thought—no, you are not going to get any. I've just spent the better part of the afternoon explaining to the world your lack of sobriety, drug abuse, suicidal episodes and depression; I expect the press in the room will have a field day tomorrow at your expense."  </p>
<p>Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "All useful grist to the mill. The more people disabuse my previous reputation, the less likely they are to worry about the absence of a body."  </p>
<p>"On that point, you might continue your life after death better if you could be bothered to check who's at the door before opening it.”  </p>
<p>“To what end? If they made as much noise as you do when you walk, I would hear them a mile away. And you have quite a distinctive gait, as I have often said. Make a lousy undercover agent.”  </p>
<p>"Well, lucky for me that I've left all that behind me years ago. How is it going, this being dead lark? Does this … graffiti… actually serve a purpose?”  </p>
<p>"Yes, it does. You might have thought of Moriarty as someone to keep an eye on, someone whose singular gifts might be turned to your purpose, but what I've found over the past three weeks is enough to show you how much of a fool you've been."  </p>
<p>Mycroft takes his drink over to the leather reclining chair and settles back. "Do tell; I love your flights of fancy."  </p>
<p>"Fact One: Moriarty is not just casually consulted by a number of criminals. He's a spider; sitting right in the middle of a very large web—a worldwide web of criminal intent—that he uses to do harm for personal gain."  </p>
<p>The Glenmorangie Signet scotch whisky slides down Mycroft's throat. Once he's taken a moment to savour it, he replies to Sherlock with a snort. "Now you're going to tell me he's doing it for money."  </p>
<p>Sherlock walks over to the section of the wall between the fireplace and the Georgian bookcase. Tapping a sheet of paper with figures printed on it, he snarks. "He doesn't need any more money, has more than enough hidden away in the Cayman Islands, Panama and Cyprus to fuel his own private army, airforce and navy. He collects money, but as a means to an end."  </p>
<p>"Which is?"  </p>
<p>"Chaos and destruction. Some of these crimes—and I have catalogued over a hundred so far that bear his fingerprints—have been done just for the pure <em> hell of it </em>. He likes outrageous things."  </p>
<p>"Such as?"  </p>
<p>Sherlock moves to the part of the wall nearest the brocade curtains, which are drawn. "Let's take this one, shall we? It's close enough to home to mean something to you. Eurofins Scientific, which as you know controls half of the whole UK market in forensic services was subjected to a cyberattack—ransomware that infected its systems and shut it down for two weeks in June, delaying more than seventy thousand cases going through the Justice system."  </p>
<p>"Tell me something I don't know."   </p>
<p>"They paid the ransom, much to your disgust, no doubt, but their shareholders were screaming about the lost revenue. What you don't know is that it was all a front, a smoke-screen designed to target one particular set of files. Operation Midland, the Metropolitan Police investigation into the pedophile ring that folded in July because the evidence corroborating the accuser's claims simply disappeared."   </p>
<p><em> "What?!" </em>Mycroft nearly chokes on a mouthful of scotch. "That's ridiculous. The investigation took years …"  </p>
<p>"And two million pounds," Sherlock adds. "All Carl Beech's claims had been carefully investigated, but without any evidence anymore, all the cases have been dropped. Moriarty thought it would be fun to twist the tail of the Met, the politicians who were accused of being in the ring, and the media that lapped up the stories for years. All his invention, by the way; he's the one who set Beech up as the source—and then when he'd had his fun, he pulled the plug."  </p>
<p>"That's <em> monstrous. </em>"   </p>
<p>Sherlock nods. "Let's not forget the accessory. Your little friend Moran has been leading you around in circles, keeping you from knowing the extent of his master's crimes. Moriarty is the veritable Napoleon of criminals. Drugs, arms, people trafficking, fraud, money laundering—there isn't a single blackmarket sector that he has hasn't dabbled in over the past six years. Where you saw <em> potential </em> , what I've uncovered is <em> crime </em>." Sherlock pauses theatrically in front of a thick pile of A4 laser-printed sheets, pinned to the mantelpiece by the carving knife. "Over a hundred of the biggest crimes, all over the world. His work … committed while you were looking the other way."  </p>
<p>"Give me that pile," Mycroft growls.   </p>
<p>A number of hours later, it's now past one o'clock in the morning, Mycroft rubs his temple absentmindedly as he sets the last sheaf of paper down on the side table next to his chair. Mercifully, Sherlock has stopped pontificating about his own genius in uncovering the extent of Moriarty's crimes and has instead made himself useful by stoking a fire. The warmth steals into Mycroft's bones as he sighs, stretching his legs out in front of him. He retrieves his long-forgotten tumbler of whisky and regards the amber liquid. </p>
<p>"Impressive isn't it?" Sherlock speaks to the hearth as prods the bricks with the poker. </p>
<p>"Yes, it does appear so," he concedes. </p>
<p>They both watch the flames flicker through and around the bricks for the next few minutes until the ringing of Mycroft's phone breaks the silence. Sherlock turns to regard him with a deducing stare as Mycroft moves to answer it. He ignores his brother to focus on the message being relayed. It's from his PA and the content makes Mycroft's eyebrows rise.  </p>
<p>"What?!" Sherlock has spotted his surprise and is curious. </p>
<p>Mycroft glances up from the text to look at Sherlock, making no effort to control his consternation. Mutely, he hands over his phone to his brother.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>01.35 BA0215 LHR-IAD dep on time 22:59. ATC tracks as usual. At 0100 (exactly) it appears on radar over GREENLAND, not the NE Canada coast. That's 820 miles off course due north, and they had no idea. Initial Intel points to a hack of the plane's navigation system through onboard wifi, utilising an android-enabled device. Plane landed safely at Maniitsoq airport in Greenland. </em> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As Sherlock finishes reading, he says, "Do you think …" and then the phone rings again.  </p>
<p>Mycroft snatches the phone back and raises it to his ear. "Yes?" </p>
<p>"Sorry to interrupt, sir, but our man at Langley says that there was CIA officer on board flight 0215, and he's making it a priority to find out what has happened. He wants you to take personal charge of the British end of the investigation."  </p>
<p>"Very well. Text me his number. Get the boys and girls to work at Swanage to see what they've got on the flight path." </p>
<p>Sherlock is smirking at him. "So? What do you think the odds are that this is Moriarty?" </p>
<p>Mycroft scrolls through his previous messages and finds the anonymous one pip message. He hands his phone back to Sherlock saying, “I think you need to put this up on the wall." </p>
<p>Mycroft eases himself back into his chair, into his thoughts. He hadn't understood the extent of Moriarty's reach before Sherlock's reveal tonight, but he had been expecting something for some time. Ever since Morocco, he has been waiting for the Irishman to throw down a gauntlet, to demonstrate his skills in such a way as to pull him in and drag him down. It's the only reason he agreed to Sherlock's faking his death in the first place, finally persuaded that this was the only way to go after Moriarty. What he has not expected is that it would take this particular dramatic shape, something transatlantic, something that would raise the stakes considerably.  </p>
<p>He looks up to find Sherlock watching him intently, one eyebrow arched in pointed question. He releases a breath and nods in silent response. </p>
<p>Sherlock's features widen into a grin. "Game on!" </p>
<p>By the time Mycroft has dealt with the various calls to the Americans, it’s gone three in the morning. He's starving, and knowing Sherlock, he won't have eaten either, so he rummages in the fridge that had been stocked by the agent in the flat above. For the past six weeks as Sherlock recovered and researched, a food parcel has been left at the door to the basement flat.   </p>
<p>They sit down to eat on opposite sides of the antique oak dining table. </p>
<p>“He’s been writing a blog.”  </p>
<p>It's the first time Sherlock has mentioned Doctor Watson and it's of enough importance for Mycroft to stop chewing and reluctantly place the partially eaten sandwich back down on his plate. “Yes, I have seen.” </p>
<p>“He’s getting it all wrong!”    </p>
<p>“So? You’re supposed to be dead. Dead men don’t care,” Mycroft retorts. </p>
<p>“Of course I care; they're still <em> my </em> cases. The inaccuracies. The appalling case names. Oh God, the romanticism!” Sherlock articulates wildly, fork punctuating his ire as it moves haphazardly through the air.  </p>
<p>Then silence and seriousness. </p>
<p>“How is he?”   </p>
<p>“Convinced,” Mycroft assures somberly. </p>
<p>"You're going to uphold your part of the bargain—keep John safe at the flat. He's got to stay put where you can keep an eye on him." There is an implicit command in Sherlock's tone, one that Mycroft does not appreciate considering he is the one who has had to bear witness to the doctor's excruciating pain over the last six weeks and in particular, the last three days. </p>
<p>"Do you really have any idea of the hell you are putting him through?"  </p>
<p>Sherlock sighs. "What choice do I have? This way he stays alive. Letting him become a pawn between Moriarty and me was always going to end badly. This way, when we do finally figure out what game Moriarty is playing and catch him, then at least John will be alive."  </p>
<p>"He may not forgive you," Mycroft warns. His brother's naivete about relationships and what is needed to sustain them is shocking.  </p>
<p>Sherlock stares back at him across the table stubborn, defiant. "I'd rather he be alive and angry at me than dead because of me."   </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Seven:</p>
<p>Music for Chapter 7 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Oats In The Water - Ben Howard • The Burgh Island EP<br/>A Trick of the Mind - Audiomachine • La Belle Époque<br/>The Yawning Grave - Lord Huron • Strange Trails<br/>(link to playlists in fic summary)</p>
<p>See this <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/190967874996/few-escape-the-gallows-the-eurofins-hack"><strong>post</strong></a> for details on the (very real) Eurofins hack.</p>
<p>Wondering what the BT Speaking Clock sounds like? Check out this <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/190985169861/7-percent-few-escape-the-gallows-mycroft"><strong>post</strong></a>.</p>
<p>And this <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/190985460436/few-escape-the-gallows-montague-street"><strong>post</strong></a> for the story behind the Montague Street pics.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. But a thief and a murderer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sitting down to update his blog at the end of the day, John feels like he has been emotionally hung, drawn and quartered. He’s devastated, still utterly devastated at the loss of Sherlock from his life. But he's equally livid at Sherlock for leaving him, however it was meant to have happened. He’s bordering on homicidal at Moriarty's delight at how the inquest has unfolded—John knows he's a psychopath, but still, it hurts all the same to see him reveling in Sherlock’s death. And it's particularly galling, seeing as though John is still convinced that Moriarty is the one who caused it. </p>
<p>And then there's Mycroft.<em> Fucking </em>Mycroft—the man who set them up in Morocco, sent Moran into their orbit and then lied about all of it. Six weeks since whatever the hell happened in the Old Operating Theatre and Mycroft hasn’t thought to mention to John that he had talked to Sherlock the day before his death.    </p>
<p><em> Six weeks!  </em>   </p>
<p>It's not like the man doesn't know how to find him. Mycroft's pulling up alongside him in his ridiculous car of his with his ridiculous henchmen, (well, Anthea is actually quite nice, but never mind that) to abduct him on a whim for a ‘chat’ more than demonstrates that he is able to reach out to John if and when he wants to. But he doesn’t want to. No. What Mycroft wants to do is sit back and watch his brother's name, Sherlock's legacy, be dragged through the mud. And he seems more than content in lending his own hand to that dragging, with his insinuations, his willingness to add fuel to the fire being stoked by Moriarty and the press.    </p>
<p><em> Fine!  </em>   </p>
<p>Sherlock’s past history with drugs and the resultant events may well be true. But that was then, this is now, as Sherlock always said. John <em>will not </em>stand by while Sherlock’s work is called into question. This one, the one he has chosen to write up tonight to prove them all wrong—the case involving the glow-in-the-dark rabbit, the mysterious hound, the tormented son and the secret military establishment. No one but Sherlock would have been able to solve that. No one but Sherlock <em>was </em>able to solve that!   </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> December 18  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> The Blog of John Watson </em>
</p>
<p><b> <em> The Hounds of Baskerville </em> </b> </p>
<p>
  <em> ‘That was amazing.’  </em>
</p>
<p>   <em> I still remember them. My words. My reaction when I first felt the full force of Sherlock’s deductive reasoning. Everything. He knew EVERYTHING about me just from my tan line, my haircut, and my phone! Extraordinary! It was extraordinary. He was extraordinary. </em></p>
<p>   <em> A lot has been reported over the last few days about Sherlock. People have questioned his state of mind, his relationships and his abilities. Someone even had the nerve to accuse him of making it all up - of creating fake cases just to be able to solve them and make himself look good. </em></p>
<p>   <em> Now I don’t claim to know everything about the great detective that was Sherlock Holmes. And the last few days have shown me that I might not know as much about him as I once thought I did. But what I do know, with utter certainty, without a shadow of a doubt, is that he was the real deal. </em></p>
<p>   <em> Take Baskerville. No one else had been able to solve the 20 year-old case of Henry Knight’s father’s death. That took the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes ... </em></p>
<p>   </p>
<p> </p>
<p>John details the case and Sherlock’s genius in solving it but omits the part about Sherlock attempting to drug him with the sugar in his coffee. Truth be told, he has still not forgiven Sherlock for<em> that </em>particular experiment. ‘Never again Sherlock!’ he had commanded in his sternest Captain John Watson voice when he had managed to get himself under control after the episode in the lab. Sherlock had just stared at him, blinking slowly, and John had taken it as agreement to comply with the order. Though the experience did re-awaken John's sneaking suspicion that he might have missed an entire Wednesday somewhere along the line round about the time they had solved the Blind Banker case, he just can’t be sure.    </p>
<p>Memories. It's memories like these that keep coming back to him as he writes. Distracting him.  </p>
<p>… Sherlock's sideways smirk when John gained them entry to Baskerville by pulling rank on the unsuspecting Corporal ... The strop Sherlock got himself in, just back from harpooning the bloody pig, when John resolutely refused to tell him where his cigarettes were—stalking around the flat, begging and yelling … Outing Mister Chatterjee's marital status to Mrs. Hudson in the midst of his tantrum had been a bit not good, but God he was a mad bugger …  </p>
<p>And so, John continues to write, until he's detailed every single bit of genius, every instance of <em>Sherlock's</em> genius it took to solve that case.  </p>
<p><em> Let's see them all stick that in their pipe and smoke it!  </em> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>oOoOoOoOo</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The small amount of justice that John feels he has restored to the world, to the image of Sherlock Holmes through detailing the Baskerville case, carries him through the last day of the inquest, through the Coroner's summation, the jury's deliberation, through to the very end of it all.  </p>
<p>There is an explosion of camera flashes as he leaves the Coroner's Court, the verdict of <em>suicidal death </em>still ringing in his ears. What did he expect? Moriarty would have found a way to get to any of the undecided jurors. The echo of that final verdict is erased by the braying questions being shouted by the journalists clustered at the edge of the pavement.   </p>
<p>"Doctor Watson! Look over here."   </p>
<p>"What do you think of the verdict Doctor Watson?"   </p>
<p>"Was he on drugs when working with the Met?"   </p>
<p>"John! Did he kill himself because he was about to be exposed as a fraud?"  </p>
<p>John lowers his head, keeps his eyes on the pavement and strides northward on Tennis Street. One or two start to follow him, but when he hears an outcry, "Mister Moriarty, what do you think of the verdict?" his pursuers turn back, no doubt to find a more cooperative person who is willing to give the sound-bite they are salivating over. </p>
<p>John can't bear the thought of hearing Moriarty repeat his lies. He already knows what the 24-hour rolling news cycle will make of the verdict; no doubt every twat on twitter will feel the need to share their opinion about the detective who took his own life, and then somehow engineered it so the body wouldn't be found. Just one more example of the fraud that he was …   </p>
<p>John just needs to walk. To let the miserable December weather chill his bones, clear his head. The tube he'd taken from Baker Street had been filled with happy people and their happy holiday making plans. Staring at those faces had been an acute form of torture. It makes his loss somehow worse to know that everyone else is celebrating. ‘Happy Holidays’ and having a ‘Merry Christmas.’    </p>
<p>He's not even sure if Mrs. Hudson is going to be around for the holidays; she's likely to go to her sister's, to get away from the press who keep ringing the doorbell, trying to get her to say something about her former tenant. They have barely seen each other, let alone spoken to each other since this all happened. What can he say to her?  </p>
<p>Walking down Angel Place to Borough High Street John barely feels the world around him. Bleak, blank, meaningless. It was the same when he returned from Afghanistan, invalided home from his tour. Until that day when Stamford had called out to him when he was walking through Russel Square on his way to … you know, he really can't remember. That entire day seems to have been eclipsed by the astronomically world-changing event of meeting Sherlock Holmes.   </p>
<p>Stamford. He wonders what Stamford thinks about all of this? John doesn't suppose he could have missed it with all the press coverage over the last six weeks and certainly after yesterday's proceedings kicked it up a notch. And now with the verdict ...  </p>
<p>It's a brisk five-minute walk from the Coroner's court down to London Bridge. He slows as he crosses Saint Thomas street and comes to a complete stop on the other side. He has no idea what he wants to do, but he knows he doesn't want to head back to Baker Street just yet—back to an empty flat, back to a life without Sherlock. He contemplates the sight of the brick church tower. He hasn't been past it since <em>that </em>morning, preferring to take the tube to Borough station rather than face this memory. But in the absence of anything else now, he feels an odd kind of pull towards the last place Sherlock had been.   </p>
<p>Opening the door to the set of steps leading up to the museum, John expects to take a hit to the solar plexus. Instead he's oddly numb. Climbing the spiralling stone stairs, he feels nothing. Surely, he should be overwhelmed? Sad? Angry? There's nothing, just a vague emptiness.    </p>
<p>The theatre itself is closed. 'For Renovations' the handwritten sign on the door says. But John doubts that; more likely is that the museum doesn't want visitors to gawk at a crime scene, take selfies and titter about the blood-stained floor. The museum in the attic is going to be the closest he can get today, so it will have to be enough. John pays an entry fee to the woman at the counter, barely registering the interaction or her, and proceeds inside to the low-ceilinged room, lit by the grayish December light creeping in through the small windows and the focused display lighting. </p>
<p>He avoids the display of amputation instruments pinned to the back of a display case just inside the entrance and focuses his attention instead on the random assortment of jars that once contained the only form of medicinal assistance a patient could expect. Of limited assistance, but in the absence of anything else, the kind of hope that a placebo can bring.  </p>
<p>There's a bottle in one of the cabinets, beneath the glass—Elixir Heroin Hyd. Conc. The yellowing label reads:   </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> One ounce added to seven ounces of water forms a Mixture containing an eighteenth of a grain of HEROIN HYDROCHLOR. in each ounce. </em> </p>
<p><em> DOSE (when diluted as above), one to two table-spoonfuls, Children, one to two tea spoonfuls. </em>  </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>John rolls his eyes, imagining the smirk on Sherlock's face. '<em>Heroin for children</em><em>'  </em> in that caramel voice of his, to which John would have snapped, "Different times."   </p>
<p>He's still browsing, moving between one artifact and the next when he feels a presence at his side. He looks up to see … the woman from the front desk? At least he presumes that's who it is, seeing as though there has been no-one one else come through in the last half hour.   </p>
<p>"Can I help you with anything? I'm the docent here. Is there anything you are curious about?"   </p>
<p>"Um, no," he stumbles over his words, suddenly startled out of his own internal world.    </p>
<p>"You have an interest in medicine?"   </p>
<p>"I'm … a doctor," he explains, at a loss for how else to respond. Small talk with strangers—it's not really his thing right now.    </p>
<p>"Bit different back then," she jerks her head to the bottle he's just been studying.   </p>
<p>"Yeah," is all he finds to say.   </p>
<p>She doesn't seem to mind his awkwardness, moving with him to another part of the exhibition—obstetrical items, all the while commenting on the use and the origin of the various pieces of equipment.   </p>
<p>"Did you specialise in obstetrics?" she asks gesturing to the display when he doesn't move off them.  </p>
<p>He shakes his head, no, "Surgery. Army Doctor."   </p>
<p>"I see, and now?"   </p>
<p>He looks down at her feet, drawn to the iridescent silver Doc Martin's that seem utterly out place at the end of her sombre black-trousered legs.   </p>
<p>"Now? Now, I'm not sure. Not sure of anything anymore, really," he tells her feet. Surprising himself that he's being this open with a stranger.  </p>
<p>"Ah well, you are in the right place for it, then."   </p>
<p>The certainly in her voice brings his gaze up to her face. "How so?"   </p>
<p>"This place. St Thomas'?" she offers.   </p>
<p>When he just looks at her, uncomprehending, she goes on. "Well, it was originally named for the saint, Thomas Becket. But it lost its designation in the Reformation and was reassigned to Thomas the Apostle. You know, the one who doubted Jesus's resurrection?"   </p>
<p>Somewhere at the back of John's mind something clicks, the phrase, 'doubting Thomas'. And then another memory slides in, the conversation he had with Sherlock after Moriarty had left the flowers on the doorstep.   </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Yes, John; I am familiar with Lazarus and the miracle of the man who was dead for four whole days before being, amazingly brought back to life …</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Seriously John, surely you must be aware of just how easy it to fake one's death, or the death of another? Fake blood, real mourners.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> No such thing as a miracle, John, just magic tricks ...</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The memories startle John.<em> W</em><em>hat are the chances?  </em>He knows he's desperately clinging to hope when he should be abandoning it, but what the hell; what does he have left, really?   </p>
<p>Obviously, he hasn't spoken for some time because the next thing he knows, he hears the docent asking him, "Are you okay? You seem to be a bit lost …"  </p>
<p>John shakes his head. "Just something you said made me think. Doubting Thomas … I don't suppose you have a Bible up here? I'd like to find that bit."  </p>
<p>She smiles. "Not a church anymore, but one of the exhibits does have a Victorian Bible. Did you know that the site was once an Augustine monastery? That's why the herbalist collection is still here."  </p>
<p>She leads him over to one of the cases and unlocks the drawer, removing a well-thumbed tome, encased in a cover of worn, cracked and peeling leather. </p>
<p>"The Book of John, chapter twenty, verses twenty-four to twenty-nine," she opens it to the requisite page. "The apostle Thomas doesn't believe in the resurrection or that others had seen the risen Christ, because he hadn't been there at the time. Here, read it for yourself." She steps back to make room. </p>
<p>John steps closer to the case, into the space she has created, and starts to read the faded text:   </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> 24  Now Thomas (also known as Didymus), one of the Twelve, was not with the disciples when Jesus came.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> 25 So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord!” But he said to them, “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> 26 A week later his disciples were in the house again, and Thomas was with them. Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> 27 Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> 28 Thomas said to him, “My Lord and my God!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> 29 Then Jesus told him, “Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” </em>
</p>
<p>  </p>
<p>John closes his eyes in dismay … <em>in the book of John ... </em> Is there a message here? A message for him? Should he doubt that Sherlock is dead, because he has not seen the body? He wants—no, <em>needs</em>—to believe that Sherlock is going to reappear, pointing to his wounds and laughing about it all being a magic trick.  Or must he accept the fact that the man is dead, believing without having the evidence? What a wretched co-incidence to be reading this text here, in this very place where Sherlock's blood is still staining the floorboards of the locked operating theatre.    </p>
<p>It's too much. Opening his eyes he slams the Bible shut and pushes it away. "Can't … I can't deal with this. Sorry …" backing away from the display case, he ducks away from the startled eyes of the docent, and rushes out of the attic.   </p>
<p>When he emerges at the bottom of the narrow spiral staircase John nearly falls over—too fast, too many spins for his vestibular system to make sense of it. But, it's worse. Even when the vertigo passes, and he gets back into his stride, moving up the pavement towards London Bridge.</p>
<p>Something fundamental has changed.  </p>
<p>His sense of <em>what </em>has happened, <em>why </em>it has happened, what it all <em>means </em>has come unmoored. He's adrift in a sea of doubt, being battered by waves of confusion. Nothing makes sense anymore.   </p>
<p>He inserts himself into the moving stream of anonymous humanity on its way through the London Underground. In the presence of so many other people he manages to keep a hold of his emotions. The pressure builds as he emerges into the light again at Baker Street station, but he keeps going, head down, shoulders hunched.   </p>
<p>Key in the door, up the stairs, shrug off jacket, hang it on the hook. Autopilot gets him to his chair, where he collapses and lets the emotions roll over him, like a wave crashing over his head.   </p>
<p><em> Where the fuck are you, Sherlock? Where did you get them to take you, once all that blood was shed?  </em>  </p>
<p>Without a body, will he ever be able to believe it? Is he stuck in this mindless agony, this limbo of uncertainty forever?  He needs a body; he needs the proof. He wants to mourn, to grieve and to bury Sherlock.   </p>
<p>He absently pulls his laptop off the side table and into his lap. He thinks should probably add something about the Coroner's verdict to his blog. He figures that there will probably be a few comments on the Baskerville post, but he's totally unprepared for the message that appears as soon as he brings up the main page: </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> You have </em><em>1058 </em><em>unread messages. </em> </p>
<p>He does a quick scan of the usernames and can't see one from <b><em>deadeye </em></b>so he figures that the comments should be safe enough to read. </p>
<p>He couldn't be more wrong. Yes, there are the usual trolls, clearly trying to start something but lacking the intelligence or finesse to draw him into a fight ... like he’s really going to bother responding to <b><em>thebuttking</em></b>’s claim that they could have solved the case in the first five minutes and Sherlock could have too if he hadn't had an idiot for a partner. </p>
<p>But there are also some truly horrid ones. </p>
<p>He deletes those ones immediately, not wanting them to exist in the world, any longer, on his blog. Then he turns the "moderated comments" function on so that all future messages will have to be approved by him prior to being posted. When he’s finished all that, he sits there, feeling himself vibrating with tension. </p>
<p>Enraged at his weakness, John uses anger to push away the despair. If Lestrade has given up, and Mycroft seems willing and able to abet Moriarty's motives in ruining Sherlock's reputation, he, John Watson, is <em>NOT </em>going to let the bastards win.   </p>
<p>He adds an epilogue to the Baskerville case: </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> "Once you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be true." </em> <em>SH </em> </p>
<p><em> Those were Sherlock's words to me during the Baskerville case.</em> </p>
<p><em> The key to solving it the wasn’t figuring out what the evidence was, we all knew what we had seen - the key was understanding why we had seen it.</em> </p>
<p><em> Sure Sherlock was a little shaken during Baskerville, who wouldn't be when presented with a gigantic hound - coal-black fur and red eyes - just like Henry Knight had described. We all were.</em> </p>
<p><em> But doubting what he saw, doubting himself, the one thing that Sherlock was always sure of was the  </em> <em> fact that the  </em> <em> truth would be revealed when the why was understood ...</em> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As he finishes typing, he looks up at the wall over the sofa, the wall that served as a pin board for the evidence in all the cases they had worked on before. The wall that is currently bare. </p>
<p><em> What would Sherlock do?  </em> </p>
<p>John grabs a pad of post-it notes from the bookshelf, scribbles a couple of words in uppercase and sticks the yellow square of paper to a spot in the centre of the wall. Taking a step back he considers what he has written. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><b> NO </b> </p>
<p><b> BODY </b> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Why isn’t there a body?  </em> </p>
<p>He hears Sherlock's voice in his head, that demanding baritone. <em>“The body, John. Where is the body? </em> <em>  There has to be a body!” </em> </p>
<p>If Sherlock needed to dispose of a body, who would he turn to for help? John scribbles another couple of words on another post-it note, placing it on the wall to the right of the first one. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><b> HOMELESS </b> </p>
<p><b> NETWORK </b> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the corner of his mind he sees a message pop up on his laptop screen alerting him to a new comment. Whatever vile trash it is can wait; he has a case to solve. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Eight:</p>
<p>Music for Chapter 8 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>After You - Louise Dowd, Shelley Harland • The Song Method 2<br/>Thunder - RY X • Thunder<br/>Astronomical - Svrcina • Svrcina<br/>(link to playlists in fic summary)</p>
<p>Want to know what our Moriarty feels like? Check out this stunning <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/611063376332898304/7-percent-johnlocklover221-sherlock"><strong>video edit</strong></a> from @johnlocklover 221. Soooo creepy and evil and twisted - absolutely perfect!</p>
<p>See this <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/611129205327085568/few-escape-the-gallows-the-old-operating-theatre"><strong>post</strong></a> for some background (and pics) on the choice of The Old Operating Theatre Museum for Sherlock’s “death”.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. He, too, flaps in the wind and rain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jim had tossed Holmes' Belstaff over the back of the lounge as soon as he had come through the door. His Vivian Westwood suit jacket had joined it shortly thereafter. Now, sitting cross-legged on the white leather, bare toes scrunched up under his thighs and shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows, he is studying the local BBC news coverage of the outcome of the inquest. Sebastian watches as Jim reviews his onscreen performance, all wide-eyed fake sympathy, mournfully lamenting the tragic suicide of the 'great' detective. "Such a waste, such a terrible, terrible waste."  </p>
<p>As soon as the BBC's coverage is done, Jim is on the hunt for another version, flicking manically through the channels with the remote. He swaps to the internet and starts trawling the news sites.     </p>
<p>"Tea?" Sebastian prompts. Jim doesn't respond.     </p>
<p>Sebastian leaves him there and rolls his eyes as he makes his way to the kitchen.     </p>
<p>"<em>Saw that</em>," Jim sing-songs after him.     </p>
<p><em> Goddamned mind reader. </em> </p>
<p>There's no way Jim <em>could </em>have seen it with his eyes glued to the screen and Sebastian's back to him. Sebastian pauses at the door to the kitchen and turns back. "It's over now; you don't have to keep watching."     </p>
<p><em> "Over</em>, my dear Sebbie? Why, it's only just begun!"     </p>
<p>Sebastian glares at him. “You’re still not going to tell me what this is all about, are you?”     </p>
<p>“Why would I do that, when this,” Jim throws his arms out wide, “is so much more fun?”     </p>
<p><em>Fun?</em> Sebastian muses wryly as his shifts his weight slightly off his injured leg. It doesn't hurt so much anymore and it will heal just fine, but it's going to be uncomfortable for a while. Jim, head cocked to the side, eyes him carefully. Sebastian holds his gaze.     </p>
<p>“You did very well over the last couple of days, Sebbie,” Jim notes approvingly. “Not a single little toe out of line.”     </p>
<p>Sebastian bristles at the memory of having to remain restrained in Watson’s presence.     </p>
<p>“None of that,” Jim soothes, unfolding his legs, getting to his feet and crossing the room to stand in front of him. “You were <em>very</em>, <em>very </em>good, and good boys deserve a reward.”     </p>
<p>Sebastian holds himself steady, bracing himself as Jim reaches up to place a hand on his face. Softly cupping his cheek, Jim holds his hand there, neither pressing nor demanding. Sebastian watches him cautiously, but those eyes that usually reveal just darkness, currently contain a hint of warmth (that is, if you could describe any aspect of Jim as ‘warm’). Then Jim leans in to kiss him, all soft-lipped restraint. Pulling back for a moment, Jim brushes gently at the corner of Sebastian's mouth, before tilting his head to capture Sebastian’s bottom lip carefully between his teeth. For a moment, Sebastian freezes, expecting the searing pain of a bite. To his surprise, Jim gently sucks it and Sebastian feels himself breathe into the kiss. With one hand still on Sebastian’s cheek, Jim moves his other hand to the back of his head, fingers shifting the hair at Sebastian’s neckline softly as he deepens the kiss.      </p>
<p><em> It’s intoxicating. Jim is a fucking drug.  </em>     </p>
<p>Involuntarily, Sebastian brings his hand up to stroke Jim’s lower back, lean muscle under silky shirt, and feels his own tension, over the last week’s happenings, fall away. He lets slip a contented sigh.      </p>
<p>Jim breaks the kiss, pulling back a little to examine Sebastian’s face. “You need some rest, Tiger.”     </p>
<p>Sebastian eyes him, concerned that he is being banished. But no, that doesn't seem to be Jim’s intention.   </p>
<p>"Tigers need sleep." Jim runs his hand down to Sebastian's leg and gives it a squeeze, just enough to remind him of the healing wound. "And sleep to heal that wound. I need you fighting fit and fuckable. So, off you go; there's a good boy."  </p>
<p><em> Sleep</em>, Sebastian thinks, <em>a few hours would be nice ... </em>  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>oOoOoOoOo  </p>
<p>  </p>
<p>When he wakes up everything is silent, dark. Sebastian does a quick recon of the flat, pausing at the front door. Nope. Nothing. <em>Damn, damn, DAMN! </em>Jim must have slipped out sometime when he was sleeping. Sebastian hopes that it was just to pick up some bloody milk. The thought of Jim out taking care of business without him is unsettling.   </p>
<p><em> Doesn't he know this is my job, to look out for him?  </em>    </p>
<p>Sebastian heads for the shower, undoing his cuffs and pulling his shirt off over the back of his head along the way. He drops the garment in the corner of the bathroom and his trousers and pants soon join it, being careful not to disturb the waterproof bandage covering the sutures on his leg as he removes the clothes. He stays standing under the spray for a while, letting the warm water flow over his head and shoulders while at the same time keeping an ear out for the sound of the front door opening. It’s been an intense few days. And it feels good that it’s finally over.   </p>
<p><em> Well it should be over ... except that Jim is still having ‘fun’</em><em>—</em>The thought gnaws at him for the duration of his shower.   </p>
<p>Jim has still not made an appearance by the time Sebastian finishes towelling himself off. Wrapping himself in the tiger-striped Derek Rose dressing gown that's hanging on the back of the bathroom door, he heads back to his bedroom. He retrieves his laptop from underneath his bed before propping up a pillow against the headboard and settling in.     </p>
<p>Just like Jim said, he <em>has </em>been restrained in Watson’s presence over the last couple of days, but that doesn't mean that he hasn’t been keeping an eye on the man in other ways. Sebastian pulls up Watson's blog and sees the addition to the last entry. <em>Curious</em>. He would have thought that the jury's decision earlier today would have dealt the man his final blow. He certainly looked defeated when he had left court. But no, the wording of the post seems almost ... defiant. Is that where Jim went, to do some of his own provocation of Watson? Or has he talked to the press again?     </p>
<p>A quick Google search returns nothing apart from references to Jim's earlier performance. Sebastian stifles a sense of rising panic. He <em>hates </em>not being kept in the loop. What is Jim doing? What is the man's game plan? Sebastian feels like he's on a battlefield, but the general isn't issuing any commands. With Holmes out of the way and Watson reduced to posting meaningless blather on the internet, hasn't Jim won? What did he mean, that he's having too much fun? How can Sebastian make himself invaluable in whatever new scheme that Jim is hatching? Who is the next enemy? Is it Mycroft Holmes? </p>
<p>He opens the app on his laptop to recover the footage from the bugs he planted in Mycroft Holmes’ townhouse before the inquest. The app's dashboard summarises events occurring in the feed. Noise, movement, any variance from the baseline of an empty, silent premises. Frustratingly, there hasn't been much of note. After all the effort Sebastian went to in setting it up, the most action he has seen has been the opening and closing of the refrigerator door, with the man simply coming home to eat, sleep and shower. Nothing has been happening in the bedroom (<em>not that he's surprised about that) </em>and he opted not to bug the bathroom (<em>no thank you</em>) though the sound does carry so he has been treated, upon occasion, to some dubious musical offerings. <em>Opera?  </em>   </p>
<p><em> Boring bastard</em>, Sebastian huffs in frustration as he snaps the lid of his laptop closed almost hard enough to crack the screen. Mycroft Holmes is getting him nowhere. Perhaps he ought to concentrate his efforts elsewhere? As he moves to get up off the bed his thoughts go to the shoe box he knows is lying on the floor of his bedroom closet ... Sebastian decides that he's not going to sit at home and pine for Jim any longer. Far more productive activity is needed, something that will make Jim sit up and take notice of him again. Whatever scheme Jim is cooking up, Sebastian wants to be let it on it. Rather than whinging, Sebastian decides to take the initiative and starts gathering all the necessary equipment.</p>
<p>Half an hour later he’s pulling the Porsche into a secure parking garage on Marylebone Road. From there it's just a short jog to Siddons Lane. He's dressed in a dark tracksuit with the hood pulled up over his head. Appropriate attire for a covert operation … or a trip to the gym. He maintains a membership with one of the larger 24-hour chains (should anyone care to question his presence out and about in the dark). A black gym bag completes the look, whilst facilitating the transport of the various tools he will need.   </p>
<p>Heading down Sissons Lane, he ducks into a space on the right where the road bends off to the left. There's a wooden door between two buildings with a double row of aluminium spikes laid across the top to deter any incursion over. But why bother going to all that trouble when the standard lock is easy enough to pick?   </p>
<p>Through the door and he's presented with the rear of the flats along Baker Street. The concrete alleyway that runs behind them soaks up any incidental light from the buildings, lending perfect cover. Besides, the only people who ever come down this way are rubbish men, collecting the bins of the residents. And today is not bin day.  </p>
<p>Like the patient sniper he is, Sebastian waits, watching the back of 221. Lights shining from the windows of the ground floor eventually go off. Still, he waits. Then the lights in the kitchen on the floor above go out.  </p>
<p><em> Will he, or won't he? </em>   </p>
<p>Sebastian makes a bet that despite having shared Sherlock’s bed, Watson won't be using <em>that </em>bedroom now; it's too full of ghosts. He gets his reward when he sees the light in the upstairs bedroom turn on. He imagines the scene—Watson getting undressed, getting into his bed. Ten minutes later, the light goes out.    </p>
<p>Still he waits. Jim will congratulate him on his audacity and his patience, of that Sebastian is sure. <em>Getting in and bugging the place while Watson was there? Brilliant work, Tiger. </em>He can practically taste that moment of pleasure.    </p>
<p>An hour after the lights go out, Sebastian finally gets into motion. His leg twinges; standing still for so long has stiffened the damaged muscle. He stretches to get the blood flowing into his legs and lets adrenaline get him moving again.    </p>
<p>There is something about a clandestine operation that has always appealed. Stealth and risk combine to give him a thrill, a natural high. Breaking into an occupied house, planting his bugs while the occupants slumber on is almost as big a rush as … well, not really. Sex with Jim tops everything.  </p>
<p>Sebastian is no fool. Mycroft Holmes could well have put security cameras into 221 as a way of protecting his baby brother. Better not to take any risks, Sebastian does a sweep to find there is nothing on the ground floor, but a faint ping from something upstairs. He will have to take preventative measures once he gets in.</p>
<p>Getting the back door to 221 open is easy enough, but then he's presented with a bloody beaded curtain hung on the inside.   </p>
<p><em> Shit. Old people and their godawful taste. </em>   </p>
<p>He grimaces as he attempts to make way through the delicate strands without announcing his presence. He can't avoid the occasional tinkle of glass beads as he slips through, but he's quiet. Certainly quiet enough to evade detection by the occupant of the downstairs flat who is going to be sound asleep, if the lingering aroma of marijuana is anything to go by. The evidence of self-medication is confirmed when his pocket torch illuminates the stubs in the ashtray on the kitchen table.   </p>
<p>Through the kitchen, there's a bedroom and a bathroom on the left. He pauses at the open doorway to the bedroom. Yup, just as he thought, the old lady is dead to the world. Good. He hates dealing with old people. Brittle bones break far too easily. Too hard to apply restraining pressure without causing damage and there is always a risk of killing them outright.   </p>
<p>From there it's a short journey out the flat's door, into the hallway and up the stairs to 221B. He makes his ascent cautiously, aware that Watson is less likely to be as heavy a sleeper. When one of the steps starts to creak under his footfall, he freezes. Damn these old houses and their built-in antique alarm systems! Standing absolutely still for almost five minutes, he hears nothing, no movement in response to the sound, so he continues on up.   </p>
<p>He’s been here once before, just for a look around, using his phone to film his explorations. Jim had been delighted at the opportunity to be a voyeur. That’s the time he'd come across Watson’s misappropriated service weapon in the bedside table upstairs. That’s going to be the trickier bit, so he saves that task until the end.  Halfway up the stairs, Sebastian stops and sweeps again. This time, his app registers two cameras. Smirking, he activates the MI6 codes to connect to those cameras and sets them to re-run current footage for the next fifteen minutes. There are perks to being a former agent specialising in surveillance. </p>
<p>Placing his bag on the living room floor he gets to work. He has three devices leftover from his bugging operation of Mycroft Holmes’ townhouse<em>—</em>ever the well-trained MI6 agent, he always has an extra set for any job.  </p>
<p>One tiny wireless camera with inbuilt motion detection and sound recording goes on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. He sticks it inside the back of the skull, far enough in the shadows not to attract attention. The expanded field of view of the fisheye lens will capture the whole room including visitors at the door. He opens the app on his phone, tunes the device to the flat's wifi and then activates the security shield that will keep it invisible to anyone sweeping the room. He grins at the camera and is rewarded with his image staring back at him on his phone.   </p>
<p>A second device finds a home above the refrigerator in the kitchen, right in the middle of the red smoke detector alarm. Establishing the connection for this one, Sebastian checks the feed on the app on his phone. The picture is clear. He waves a hand in front of it, and yes, the motion detector is working. Now for the last one.  </p>
<p>He had debated on the way over whether he needed to place a bug in Watson’s bedroom. Probably not necessary for the ‘official’ task but he can’t get the niggling feeling out of his gut that Jim has a personal interest in Watson beyond whatever scheme he is working on. This one is going to take some real ingenuity though, given the fact that the man is asleep in the room.  </p>
<p>Sebastian's solution is eloquent. He goes into Sherlock's bedroom and notes that almost nothing has changed from the last time he'd been there. If he'd wanted evidence that Watson is still playing the grieving widower, this is it. He takes the last of his bugs and tucks it into the elasticised cuff at his left wrist, then opens the bedroom window, smirking at the fact that it isn’t even locked.  </p>
<p><em> Holmes always was an overconfident prat—convinced that his massive brain would be able to get him out of any trouble he found himself in. </em>Sebastian grins to himself. <em>It didn't help him the last time, now did it?  </em>  </p>
<p>He clambers out the window and then stands on the frame, balancing carefully with his fingertips. He raises his foot, wincing slightly as the manoeuvre pulls at his wound and then steps up onto the sash of Sherlock's window, gaining just the amount of height he needs to reach the ledge of the window above—Watson's bedroom. Moving the bug into his left hand, he puts all of his weight onto his right hand. Stilling himself, he breathes deep and then trusts his strength to lever himself up just far enough to be able to position the bug at the edge of the Watson's window.     </p>
<p><em> Perfection. </em> </p>
<p>  </p>
<p>oOoOoOoOo  </p>
<p>  </p>
<p>Sebastian is still congratulating himself on a job exceptionally well done when he turns the ignition off and climbs out of the Porsche. The shared residents' underground garage in Soho is silent save for the quiet hum of the ventilation system and the peacefully dim lighting. He reaches behind the driver's seat to retrieve the gym bag and feels a slight movement of air at his right shoulder. He wheels around to his left, coming up behind his potential assailant and slamming <em> him </em> into the side of the car. One arm goes around the man’s slightly smaller chest holding him back against his own and the other presses a knife to the man’s throat. He’s about to issue a command to stay quiet when he feels a … snort of laughter? contracting the chest in front of him and causing his knife blade to bounce against the man's throat.    </p>
<p><em> What the f  </em> <em> … ? </em>    </p>
<p>“Jesus fucking Christ, Jim,” he barks, quickly removing the knife from Jim's neck and manhandling the now convulsing Irishman around. “I could have fucking <em>killed y</em>ou.”    </p>
<p>Sebastian returns the weapon to the sheath up his arm and runs his knife hand aggravatedly through his hair.    </p>
<p>“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Jim manages to get out as his laughter subsides.    </p>
<p>“Where have you been?” Sebastian demands, pressing Jim back against the car. “What have you been up to? Why--”    </p>
<p>Jim silences him by cupping him with one hand, fingers curling around his cock through the soft material of his tracksuit pants. He reaches round the back of Sebastian’s neck with the other hand to pull him in close and growl in his ear. "Don't talk, don't ask questions, just shut the fuck up and let me fuck you."    </p>
<p>Sebastian rolls his eyes in response but already he can feel Jim's dark words pulse through him.  </p>
<p>"Move," Sebastian directs, getting Jim to shift to the right so he can reach across the driver's seat into the glove box. He barely manages to get his hand on the bottle of lube stashed there for the satiation of Jim's spontaneous impulses before he feels his tracksuit bottoms and pants being pulled down from behind.  </p>
<p>"There's that gorgeous arse of mine," Jim growls as his fingers dig into the front of Sebastian's hips, thumbs stroking outwards from his sacrum in rhythmic circles.  </p>
<p>Sprawled across the driver's seat, Sebastian looks back over his shoulder at him. "This really isn't going to go anywhere unless you let me up," he points out.  </p>
<p>Jim releases his hips and steps back a foot. "Be my guest," he smirks as Sebastian pushes himself back up to standing.  </p>
<p>Sebastian steps back to close the gap between them and in the process, proceeds to rub his bare arse against Jim's prominent but still cloth-covered erection.   </p>
<p>Jim hisses, snatches the bottle from Sebastian's hand and orders, "booty call, now!" then places his other hand in the middle of Sebastian's back and shoves him roughly in the direction of the rear of the vehicle.  </p>
<p>Sebastian stumbles to obey, his movements very much restricted by a prominent erection and the elastic waistband of his tracksuit pants that has snagged his ankles. He stops long enough to step free, kicking the joggers and his pants aside. He’s grateful that Jim is allowing him to keep his sweatshirt on as he positions himself, spread eagled at the back of the Porsche. The heat of the engine radiating through the metal casing left him with a rather nasty burn on his chest the last time Jim had chosen this particular location.  </p>
<p>Evidently his positioning isn't quite to Jim's liking as he finds his right foot being kicked outwards. The instant widening of his stance requires him to reach forward and grab a hold of the back of the black leather headrests to balance himself in order to prevent his chest and nether regions coming in contact with the metal over the engine of the car. In this awkward position, abdominals clenched tightly to maintain the position, Jim has him just where he wants him and by happy coincidence, Sebastian is right where he wants to be—at Jim's mercy.  </p>
<p>Jim reaches down with one lube-slicked hand and grazes the underside of Sebastian's rock-hard cock then brushes back over his balls and perineum. "Where have <em>you </em>been, Sebbie, dressed up like this? You weren't looking for 'action' elsewhere were you?"   </p>
<p>Since Jim had not bothered to answer his question about his whereabouts, Sebastian petulantly decides to wait before sharing the details of his night's work. Given Jim's current mood, trying to win praise about the bugging seems pointless, so he simply answers, “out”.   </p>
<p>Jim takes this insubordination as a cue to insert an index finger roughly into Sebastian's hole, causing him to tense and clench down at the rapid intrusion.  </p>
<p>“No," Jim eases his movement, and begins to slide his finger in and almost all the way out before plunging it back in again. "You'd never cheat on me, would you Tiger.”   </p>
<p>Sebastian groans through his clenched teeth in agreement as he focuses on relaxing his wary muscles.  </p>
<p>"How much should we prepare you for this then?" Jim queries slyly.  </p>
<p>"Just hurry up and fuck me," Sebastian manages to spit out as Jim hooks his finger on his next pass, grazing Sebastian's prostate.  </p>
<p>"Oh, mister rough and ready; I like that."  </p>
<p>Sebastian hears Jim loosen his belt buckle and undo his flies before taking the briefest of moments to slick himself up. Then without warning, the blunt head of Jim's cock presses hard and then pops through the tight ring of muscle. "Agh," he chokes out.  </p>
<p>"Rough enough for you, Tiger?" Jim leans over Sebastian’s back and digs his fingers into the muscle between his neck and shoulder.  </p>
<p>"Hardly," Sebastian scoffs, calling Jim's bluff.  </p>
<p>"Well, let's rectify that then," Jim responds as he pulls nearly all the way out and then slams violently back in.  </p>
<p>Then it's just hard and fast, Jim preceding violently to rail Sebastian, punching a series of grunts out of Sebastian's throat as he struggles to maintain his hold on the headrests.  </p>
<p>Sebastian momentarily ponders the sight the two of them must make—him sprawled across the back of the sports car, being taken from behind by a madman in the semi-darkness. The image feeds his arousal further and his cock starts to leak pre cum onto the jet-black metallic paint (he'll be needing to polish the stains off the finish later).  </p>
<p>"What about now?" Jim demands as he releases Sebastian's shoulder and grabs a hold of his hips with both hands. The force causes Sebastian's thighs to contact painfully with the edge of the Porsche's trunk. </p>
<p>"Fuck, yeah," is all he can manage as Jim hits his prostate on each and every thrust. </p>
<p>Jim's respiration rate is increasing and Sebastian can feel in the way that his hips have started to stutter, jerking out of rhythm—he's approaching his release.  </p>
<p>Reaching round, Jim grabs a hold of Sebastian's cock and starts jerking him off aggressively, forcing his foreskin up and over the head of his cock and then wrenching it back down, blurring the line between pleasure and pain. It's the tipping point. Sebastian barks out a curse and then he's coming, all over Jim's knuckles and the boot of the Porsche. </p>
<p>Before Sebastian has a chance to finish, Jim releases his hold to grab his hips, digging his fingers into the flesh. Once, twice—two savage thrusts that cross the line into pain—and then he's coming. Sebastian lets go of the headrests and slumps over the back of the car as Jim continues to slam home, milking the violence of the moment until Sebastian wants to scream. </p>
<p>Then, just when he thinks he might actually voice that need, Jim pulls out, causing Sebastian to wince. Grimacing as he feels a warm trail of lube and come run down his leg, he steps back into his tracksuit and pulls it and his pants back up. The wound on his leg hurts like hell now; muscles tight against the car making the sliced flesh burn anew. Turning to make his way to the elevator, he's expecting Jim to follow but the Irishman, currently tucking himself neatly back into his trousers remains by the car.  </p>
<p>"You coming?"  </p>
<p>"Pretty sure I just did," Jim winks.  </p>
<p>"I mean upstairs," Sebastian grits his teeth.  </p>
<p>"No can do, Tiger; Daddy's got work to do," Jim responds as he proceeds to saunter off in the direction of the exit to the street.  </p>
<p>Sebastian’s demeanor changes from pleasantly spent to instantly pissed off. "What work? Where are you going?" he shouts after Jim's retreating form.  </p>
<p>Jim just laughs and disappears around the corner.  </p>
<p><em> Fuck this. Fuck him. </em>Sebastian mutters as he jabs the elevator button aggressively.  </p>
<p>While he waits for it to arrive, he opens the app on his phone to review his handiwork. He enlarges the infrared image of the Baker Street sitting room and squints at the makeshift artwork on the back wall, above the couch. He'd been too busy to do anything more than glance at it when he'd planted the bugs.  </p>
<p><em> Post-it notes? </em>He zooms in closer to make out the words that have been printed on the notes. One phrase stands out<em>—</em><em>Homeless Network? </em>Sebastian doesn't know what it means but he figures it's as good a place to start as any. Time to see what Watson is up to. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Nine:</p>
<p>Music for Chapter 9 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Dark In My Imagination - of Verona • The White Apple<br/>No One Will Save You - Aviators • Howling at the Moon<br/>bad guy - Billie Eilish • When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go?<br/>(link to playlists in fic summary)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. On the dead oak tree bough.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock is annoyed. Irritated. Pissed off. He blows a smoke-ring before stubbing out the fourth cigarette of the morning. Instead of considering the material he has placed on the wall, his attention is drawn to the pattern of the brocade wallpaper. It may be four o'clock in the morning, but that should not matter. At least another distraction—Mycroft—had finally taken himself off, back to his townhouse. Frustrated, Sherlock grinds his teeth, closes his eyes and banishes the wallpaper.  </p><p><em> Focus! </em> Without his brother annoying him, Sherlock should be able to see the patterns better. Yet, like the ornate brocade, Mycroft keeps creeping back into his mind. Sherlock sets off, pacing in front of the wall. He lets his concentration re-focus on what it is that is bothering him about Mycroft. Well, beyond the obvious fact that he's been annoying for most of Sherlock's life. Now the sanctimonious voice of his brother echoes, "<em>Narrow it down</em>." Sherlock's pacing stutters to a halt.  </p><p><em> Unexpected</em>. What had been unexpected about Mycroft tonight was that he had been surprised by the evidence on the wall. Useless. Mycroft had been utterly useless, completely oblivious to what Moriarty had done—was continuing to do—blind to it all, and been played for a fool for years. Yet despite all that, despite the revelations, despite Sherlock being able to prove what Moriarty had been up to all this time, Mycroft still won't tell him what role Moriarty was being groomed for. </p><p><em> Groomed. </em> The revelation comes to him in a flash. The only person who has been successfully groomed has been Mycroft. Moriarty now holds in his hands, Mycroft's carefully cultivated reputation and entire career. To destroy him, all Moriarty needs to do is make clear that his crimes have been committed while Mycroft <em> knew </em> of his activities and did nothing to stop them. Sherlock wonders who else inside the British intelligence services knows what Mycroft has been up to, how vulnerable his brother is. Knowing Mycroft, he would have kept his ‘project’ pretty quiet, but that's going to work against him if Moriarty manages to flip the tables. </p><p><em> I'm the smart one, Sherlock. </em> Mycroft’s childhood taunt comes back to him. This situation is going to put that claim to the test. He turns to look at the evidence wall again. All this is fuel to a bonfire that could be lit around Mycroft's feet. Off to the far side of the wall nearest the curtains, are the serial suicides Moriarty had distracted them with. For all the time that Sherlock had spent working them out, trying to pin the crimes on Moriarty, they fade into insignificance when compared to the enormous web of chaos that Moriarty has managed to weave. Sherlock knows now that all of it was just a game, a whim, Moriarty choosing to play with him, to keep both him and Mycroft distracted from the real problem, diverting him from the bigger picture. Using John to distract him as well. </p><p><em> John. </em> Sherlock rocks forward on his toes as he experiences a stab of guilt at how he had left things with John. Certainly the ‘pretending to be dead' thing will be seen as more than a bit not good. But against the backdrop of their conversation on the roof, it pales in comparison. Deeds can be undone, atoned for, but words, words can never be taken back. Once lodged in John's brain, the words Sherlock had used can't be erased, only forgiven. </p><p><em> Weak</em>. Sherlock knows he is being weak now, spending time reliving that exchange, but it haunts him still. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "You think you can win this thing against Moriarty, don't you? You're never going to win, Sherlock. He's never going to let you win."</em>
</p><p><em> "You think I don't know that? You think I haven't </em> <em> realised </em> <em> that all along? Moriarty has had the advantage; he's always had the advantage. He's not emotionally compromised, like I am. I told you before—sentiment: the grit in the sensitive instrument, the crack in the lens, distorting, obscuring the view. It makes me weak ... us ...  you ... make me weak. </em>"</p><p>  </p><p><em> FOCUS! </em>  He grabs fistfuls of his hair and tugs, using the pain to ground himself. There is no time to waste with sentimentality. There never was a choice in the end. He'd said what he had to say so that John could live, so that Moriarty would stop targeting him as a way to get to Sherlock—and now that he knows what else is on the wall—Mycroft, as well. For John, Sherlock would, <em> had </em>sacrificed anything. One day, unless this ‘being dead’ thing turns out to be a permanent change in status, he’s going to have to own up to that.  </p><p><em> Later. </em>He starts pacing again, walking the length of the sitting room, swivelling on his heel as he reaches the wall. The movement helps him force the sentimental thoughts from his mind. Now is not the time. Once Moriarty has been taken down and his web permanently pulled apart. Now that Sherlock knows what he is up against, the 'if' is something that he has to deal with properly. Is it better to let John think he killed himself, or let him believe that Sherlock had been killed by Moriarty? Knowing John, he'd hate the latter more than the former. The ambiguity Sherlock has built into his fake death will give John some solace; John can't blame himself for an irrational act that might have been suicide or murder. Being unsure, John won't go after Moriarty himself, in some sort of blind revenge. He should be safe for now.  </p><p>As he looks away from the petty game of suicide murders, Sherlock focuses on the crimes he's uncovered. These things that Moriarty has orchestrated are quite unique; all bearing his unmistakable signature. Yes, they had taken time, money, resources that someone in a similar position of influence could possibly have arranged. But these <em> specific </em>things have taken a far more twisted approach. Each one has an element of precise calculation in it, requiring a level of mathematical genius that few could claim to possess. Those who do, rarely if ever apply it to crimes like these.  </p><p>Moriarty's work is not devoted to petty aggrandisement; he isn't in it for money, fame or power. There appears to be no sexual perversion or childhood trauma driving the Irishman. Instead, all Sherlock can find when it comes to motivation is a totally malignant love of chaos. He is evil personified. The man's psychopathy propels him to do the most malicious damage to people, for the simplest of reasons—because he can. Moriarty isn’t some bully stumbling into a sandbox and kicking everyone else's toys around. Moriarty has rigged the sandbox to explode and take everyone down with him. </p><p>Sherlock turns his mind to exploring tonight's additional revelation. While no proof of a direct link to Moriarty exists yet, the one pip phone message sent to Mycroft's unlisted, uncontactable phone, and the inflight and on-the-ground hacking of the aircraft bears all the hallmarks of Moriarty's gamesmanship.  </p><p>Mycroft’s continued conversations into the early hours of the morning with the Americans had revealed little in the way of additional information. They had confirmed that the plane’s navigation system had indeed been hacked via the onboard wifi network by an android-enabled device. The owner of said device, who had been hauled unceremoniously off the plane and onto the tarmac in Maniitsoq by two airport policemen, turned out to be an eighty-two-year-old widow from Wokingham, whose only crime was using her ancient relic of a HTC smartphone to claim her 'prize'. </p><p>"It was a leaflet in the seat pocket in front of me, telling me I'd won a competition," she explained through a hail of tears, "the prize was a return first class air ticket."  When the police located the leaflet in question, the number listed was "no longer in service," according to the voicemail message, spoken in perfect Danish. Not particularly revealing. </p><p>What <em> was </em>revealing, however, was that the Aircraft Tracking Control systems on both sides of the Atlantic had shown the plane as being on course and on time the whole way, and only at the last-minute jumping location to 820 miles north. Despite frantic checking, the ATCs didn’t show any sign of interference. As Mycroft had said to his CIA contact, on-board hacking had been proven in the past to be possible, but no one had yet been able to break into either the British or American Air Traffic Control systems, let alone both. Was the fact that one of the passengers was a CIA analyst a fluke? Was the fact that the hack had taken place at one o'clock Greenland Time a coincidence, or was it purposefully linked to the speaking clock message? </p><p><em> … the universe is rarely so lazy. </em> </p><p>Sherlock returns his attention to Moriarty’s hacking of the forensic testing company. Eurofins’ press release had stated that the new malware variant was ‘initially non-detectable’, pointing to a classic "wiper," a strain used to mask intrusions by deleting crucial evidence. The company itself had been reluctant to name the attacker, but unlike many cyber-security firms, their US-based provider had not shied away from attributing the malware and the attacks to a specific perpetrator. </p><p><em> "Based on the analysis of the malware and the attackers' behaviour, we suspect Russian-based nation-state adversaries were involved to develop and deploy this new wiper," </em>the security team had stated in their twenty-eight-page report published on the tool’s capabilities. </p><p><em> Why would a private company put themselves so blatantly at risk as to name the perpetrator, and the wrong one at that? </em> </p><p><em> The CIA officer on board ... </em> </p><p>It takes Sherlock under two minutes to locate the parent company of the cyber-security firm and then only thirty seconds more to locate its affiliate on the list of US Department of Defense contractors. </p><p>He fires off a text. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Why the CIA Agent? SH</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A full minute goes by without a response. Sherlock checks the time on his phone: 6am. Seriously, how much sleep does the man need? Just as he considers the highly unsavoury option of actually phoning, the three dancing dots appear ... </p><p>  </p><p>
  <em> To create an international incident.</em>
</p><p>  </p><p>The ‘obviously’ at the end of his brother's reply is missing, but Sherlock hears it nonetheless. He growls in frustration. </p><p>  </p><p>
  <em> Not why ‘A’ CIA agent, why ‘THE’ CIA agent? What’s so special about this one? Find out. SH</em>
</p><p>  </p><p>Two minutes later Mycroft texts back. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The Americans have stopped talking.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Of course they have. Send them a text. Just one word: ZEROCLEARE. SH</em>
</p><p>
  <em> What is this about?</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Send it! SH</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Thirty seconds later, Mycroft replies.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The Americans are no longer silent.</em>
</p><p>Sherlock smiles to himself as he put his phone away. <em> Indeed</em>.  </p><p>When everyone knows the bad guy is, it's easy to pin any other evil deed on them. Misattributing the source of the malware was clearly an attempt by the Americans to flush out the real perpetrator. And their gamble had paid off. Moriarty, clearly irked by the attribution of his hard work to someone else couldn't resist pulling of another, larger scale hack. And it had paid off for Moriarty as well. Targeting the agent working on the case had enabled the Americans to draw Mycroft into the frame. ZeroCleare. The malware wiper used in the Eurofins hack was the same one used in this hack. The Americans insistence on Mycroft's involvement in this incident means they suspect Mycroft has a connection to whoever did the Eurofins attack. Which Sherlock knows he does. </p><p>Sherlock sinks down into the soft leather of the armchair by the fireplace and lets out a sigh. Now they don’t just have to defeat Moriarty, they have to do it under the noses of the Americans, and hope that the battle doesn't reveal Mycroft's relationship with Moriarty. He steeples his fingers beneath his chin, closes his eyes and focuses. </p><p>  </p><p>oOoOoOoOo </p><p> </p><p>When Mycroft finally returns to Montague Street around lunchtime, the first thing he does is sniff the air. His face wrinkles. "You've been smoking." </p><p>"I've run out of nicotine patches." </p><p>"Where did you get them?" </p><p>"Your agent upstairs is a smoker. I nicked them from him." </p><p>Sherlock is at the dining table, the six laptops open, watching the news channels on both sides of the Atlantic. The 'ghost' flight is leading the way with glorified interviews with the traumatised but (and so very fortunate for the ravenous reporters) verbose passengers of flight BA0215: </p><p>  </p><p>
  <em> “All we were told was that we had to make an unscheduled stop and change aircraft. In Greenland. Greenland! Honestly!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Then before we can get off the plane, all these security people came running and pulled this poor little old lady off.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Mycroft pulls up a chair and joins Sherlock at the table, placing his incessantly buzzing phone face down next to him. </p><p>  <em> “It’s been six hours and I still haven't been able to retrieve my luggage. What if I was diabetic?”</em></p><p> </p><p>"God, the great unwashed masses are irritating." Mycroft tabs the mute key on each of the laptops. "No need to waste time listening to their drivel." </p><p>"This whole situation is ridiculous. A pantomime." Sherlock looks up from his laptop to skewer Mycroft with a barrage of accusations. "What did you <em>really</em> want Moriarty for? What were you grooming him to do? Is this the sort of thing you wanted him to do for you? Well, the tables have well and truly been turned."  </p><p>Mycroft doesn't respond. He just takes a breath and drops his head into his hands. </p><p>Sherlock pauses in his diatribe to regard his brother. When he speaks again, his voice is uncharacteristically gentle. “The Americans were more forthcoming, I gather?” </p><p>“Indeed,” Mycroft mutters through his fingers. “The CIA agent is a cyber-security expert who had been assigned to investigate the Eurofins ransomware; we spoke. He does not know who the perpetrator is. Neither do I, at least not officially.” </p><p>“They know you have suspicions that you are not sharing with them. That makes them suspect you are involved.” </p><p>“Faulty logic, but yes.” </p><p>“Do they know that <em> you </em> know that they suspect your involvement?” </p><p>“No.” </p><p>“Keep it that way.” </p><p>Mycroft finally looks up and eyes Sherlock curiously. </p><p>Sherlock shrugs. “We need more time. I need more time." </p><p>Mycroft considers Sherlock’s words for a moment and then reluctantly nods. </p><p>“Cheer up, big brother,” Sherlock declares merrily. “At least it's just your career and reputation on the line. I had to actually die.” </p><p>Mycroft scowls at him, but there is a flicker of amusement in his gaze. Then he gets serious. Sitting up straighter in his chair, Mycroft reports. “We have another problem.” </p><p>Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. </p><p>"Your Doctor is not an idiot.” Mycroft brings up a photo on the screen of his phone and turns it to face Sherlock. </p><p>“No, he’s not,” Sherlock agrees looking at the still image, taken from one of Mycroft’s surveillance cameras of the living room wall of 221B, adorned with notes. “How far has he gotten?” </p><p>“So far? He’s currently tracking down someone in your Homeless Network. Will they talk?” </p><p>Sherlock shrugs, “Given the right incentive.” </p><p>Mycroft arches a patrician brow. </p><p>Sherlock sniffs. “I pay them to spy on people. They are loyal to the pound. Don’t worry," he assures, "I’ll slow him down.” </p><p>Sherlock returns to his laptop and brings up John’s blog. He makes a comment on the last post and presses send. </p><p><em> That should do it. </em> </p><p>  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Ten:</p><p>Music for Chapter 10 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>I Know How To Speak - Manchester Orchestra • I Know How To Speak (Acoustic Version)<br/>Vocal - Max Richter, Peter Gregson • Gregson Richter Jóhannsson<br/>The Curse - Agnes Obel • Aventine (Deluxe)<br/>(link to playlists in fic summary)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. With all his family,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>High ceiling lights cast a dull glow over the plain walls and depressing concrete floor of the Waterloo Bullring, subway 2. At rush hour, the tunnels and underpasses between the Embankment and Waterloo Station fill to the brim with commuters, a constant flow of people who want to be anywhere else, trying to make that happen as soon as possible. In the quieter moments, the lulls between rush hours, the ebbs give way to more permanent inhabitants. Also wanting to be somewhere else, but as a result of fate and happenstance, finding themselves here without alternative.   </p>
<p>Providing shelter from the elements, and protection in numbers, the area has ‘housed’ the homeless for nearly forty years: young people fleeing abusive families, older people evicted through non-payment of rents, people of all ages with addiction, substance abuse and mental health challenges. After Iraq and Afghanistan, they were joined by demobilised armed forces personnel, unable to find employment and suffering from the effects of war.   </p>
<p>As John searches for anyone he recognises, he is reminded of how truly fortunate he was that this hadn’t been his fate. Whilst the sparse, ugly bedsit in Balham that had been 'home' when he was discharged hadn't been much, it had been more than these people have. And while he had been so depressed that he had, at more than one point, seriously considered using his gun as his exit plan, the degree of his mental health challenges hadn’t prevented him from holding onto that accommodation. It’s hard not to feel slightly guilty.   </p>
<p>Sherlock had known these people in a way that John had never gotten to the bottom of; 'that was then, this is now' was about all he ever got out of him. Yet, whatever time he'd spent among them, once he left the streets, Sherlock had maintained his contacts. "Eyes and ears, John. And virtually invisible; better than any CCTV camera."   </p>
<p>In John’s experience working cases with Sherlock, his 'network' of rough-sleeping assistants had never failed to materialize when he needed them. A tenner here, a twenty-pound note there, and they could always be found. The fact that John isn’t Sherlock Holmes—doesn't even come close to matching the great detective in any way—is made all the more apparent when, in searching all of Sherlock’s old haunts, places they had run across these homeless informants in the past, there are none of his contacts to be found. He'd even tucked a fifty into the pocket of his jeans, to have at the ready.   </p>
<p>The commuters ignore him, too caught up in their own worlds to notice someone weaving in and out of their path. Except, of course, to grumble and mutter under their breath when he doesn't get out of their way fast enough. The others, the ones who loitered with intent see him looking and skitter away like mice in the dark, suddenly illuminated by torchlight. Every time he thinks he recognises someone, a person he had encountered on a previous case, they seem to disappear. Maybe he is being paranoid but whilst he can’t seem to find what he is looking for, he can’t shake the feeling that someone else has found him. All day he has felt like he is being watched, but whenever he turns around there is nothing. No one. The logical suspect of course is Mycroft. But the security cameras seem to be staying fixed in the same position whenever he checks. He tries to shake it off, but it is definitely something.   </p>
<p>After searching through the tunnels and wandering the Embankment, he eventually finds himself nearing Waterloo Bridge. The crowd of tourists on their way to the National Theatre and the Tate Modern museum parts and there she is, the young woman Sherlock had ‘invested’ in previously when they were working a murder case. Same dark brown hair, parted in the middle, same khaki and brown jacket, sitting on the concrete bench under the bridge, exactly where she had been on that day. She spots him approaching. Whatever she sees must spook her because before he can reach her, she's gathered up her bag and cardboard sign and is walking away from him.   </p>
<p>No, no, no, not when he’s finally found someone! He can’t lose her! He starts hurrying after her. Glancing back over her shoulder, she sees him and starts walking faster, heading west along the Embankment, trying to lose him in the crowds walking along the river in front of the South Bank's skate park.  He starts to jog after her, which panics her into shouting “Police! Police!” She yells, as she keeps turning her head back over her shoulder to keep an eye on him. Pedestrians scatter out of her way.  </p>
<p>“No, no, I just want to talk to you,” John insists loudly, still advancing, knowing it's probably not a great idea but not knowing what else to do. <em>Shit. Fix this.</em> He pulls the fifty pound note out of his pocket and waves it at her. “I really just want to talk.”   </p>
<p>She slows down and he slows too, keeping the distance between them the same. At that moment, a Community Support Police Officer appears from behind one of the food trucks along the pedestrian area under Queen Elizabeth Hall. John surreptitiously stuffs the note back in his pocket.   </p>
<p>“Everything OK here?” the officer asks the woman, regarding John with some suspicion.   </p>
<p>She’s still giving John a wary look, but it seems that the appearance of the money has piqued her interest, and turning to the officer, flashes him a smile. “Yes, sir, sorry sir, just a mistake. It’s okay."   </p>
<p>John takes a deep breath through his nose and sighs in relief. The officer is still eyeing him with suspicion, so he nods and smiles. "Yeah, it's okay, officer. No problem."   </p>
<p>He and the girl wait until the CSPO moves off, heading towards the Golden Jubilee footbridges.   </p>
<p>"Awright. You waving a bullseye? Whatya want?"   </p>
<p>John hears the odd word and it brings back a late-night lesson from Sherlock in cockney rhyming slang. A pony being a twenty-five pounds; fifty either a bullseye or "the younger ones will sometimes call them reddies, older generation could you a half ton." Is this what his life is going to be like from now on? Haunted by the baritone voice reminding him over and over again how little he knows? John takes the fifty pound note out of his pocket but keeps it in his hand. "Let's find somewhere a little more private."   </p>
<p>That gets him a suspicious side-eye, which he answers with a placating gesture. "Just want to talk about a mutual acquaintance. That's all."   </p>
<p>She leads him past the skaters, deeper into the tunnel system. The noise of their skateboarding ricochets down the darker tunnel; perhaps that's what puts pedestrians off, because here there is no one else to overhear their conversation.   </p>
<p>"Okay." She's not looking at him but keeping her eyes on the rectangle of light at the point where the tunnel opens to the sky around the IMAX cinema. "Do you know who I am?"   </p>
<p>She rolls her eyes. "Yeah. You're the guy with Shezza. Whatya after?"   </p>
<p>"Not what, who—Sherlock Holmes."   </p>
<p>"He's dead."   </p>
<p>"So, I've heard," John says, trying to contain his sarcasm. "But no one's found a body, so maybe there's room for a <em>different </em>interpretation."   </p>
<p>"What's that gotta do with me?"   </p>
<p>"You can ask around. I just want to talk to anyone who knows anything about how Sherlock left the Old Operating Theatre on St Thomas Street near Borough Market. Given the amount of blood on the floor there, he didn't walk out on his own. Some of you people—the homeless network he called you—might have helped him leave, dead or alive."   </p>
<p>“A body spirited away in the middle of the night? No offense mate but I really think that you oughta see a doctor.”   </p>
<p>“I am a doctor!” John snaps.   </p>
<p>She looks at him, shaking her head.   </p>
<p>Deep breath. “Look, right, sorry. I'm just a bit …" (<em>wound up? devastated? paranoid?</em>) … he settles on, "concerned.” He hands over the fifty-pound note. "There's another of those coming to you if you can give me a name, point me in the right direction of who helped him."   </p>
<p>He watches as need overcomes her resistance. She snatches the note and nods. "Okay. I'll sniff around. Shezza was good to me. I guess I owe him sommat."  Then she heads back towards the skateboarders.   </p>
<p>John calls after her, "How will I know where to find you?"   </p>
<p>"You don't. I find you."    </p>
<p>John hopes that the idea of earning more will be enough motivation. He is still lost in his thoughts as he heads around the IMAX and into the tunnel that will take him to Waterloo Station. </p>
<p>John’s instincts for survival have served him well in the past. First in the army (up until the moment the bullet entered his shoulder, that is) and then working alongside Sherlock. So, when he's in the tide of commuters heading up the incline towards the station, he senses a different kind of presence, one that makes him spin around, only to come face-to-face with ... Sebastian Moran.   </p>
<p>Smirking, the man says, "Surprise!" as the commuters split to flow either side of the two obstacles now in their path.   </p>
<p>"What the hell do you want?" John snaps, entirely unamused.   </p>
<p>The smirk broadens into a grin. "I'm proving a point."   </p>
<p>"What, that you're a dickhead?"   </p>
<p>The smile becomes cold, predatory. "No. That's you. I'm just enjoying the show, watching you fly around like some demented blue bottle trying to find out what happened to Holmes' body. Give up, man. You'll never figure it out. He's dead, probably rotting away somewhere in a maggot infested dumpster. You're too stupid to find him. Just give up." Moran raises his hands, extending them towards John, with open palms, as if telling him to chill. It doesn't match the venom of his words.   </p>
<p>Maybe it's the result of having been so frustrated all day, but something just snaps in John's temper. Without thinking, he closes the distance between them, reaches past the man's arms to grab a bit of Moran's black jacket in his right hand, while balling up his left fist to throw a punch.   </p>
<p>Moran reacts by stepping backwards and bringing his arms back around his own head, as if protecting himself from the incoming fist. His raised elbow deflects John's blow, and then Moran drops his own elbow, trapping John's left arm against his own body, as he moves in to tuck his own head up tight behind John's shoulder.   </p>
<p>As John struggles to extract his arm, Moran says, "Hey, man. Relax!" loud enough to be heard by the pedestrians who are staring as they give the two men an even wider berth, passing as close to the walls as possible.   </p>
<p>John lets go of the jacket with his right hand and tries to use it to punch the man's abdomen, but his attempt is blocked. Moran then reaches up and places the fingers of his right hand on either side of John's jaw, exactly where the carotid arteries are. His vision blurs and John knows it's only a matter of time, but he can't stop struggling. Moran spins him around, saying "Calm down," again playing to the crowd. He releases his grip on John's neck and then sticks his leg behind John's while pushing his shoulders, making him fall backwards. Moran is laughing by the time he drops John onto the floor and steps away.    </p>
<p>John's anger is now tinged with embarrassment; the ex-Special Ops man has made him look like a complete idiot. As he struggles to his feet, Moran is looking up the ramp and smiling. "Oh, look. Just when you need a policeman, here one comes."   </p>
<p>John's still trying to clear his head from the momentary loss of blood flow when the British Transport Police officer stops beside him.   </p>
<p>"What's going on? You alright?" The officer asks, looking first at John, who must appear to be the injured party, because he knows he looks like he's come off worse in this fight.   </p>
<p>John leans against the handrail and gives a placatory gesture. "Yeah, I'm fine. No problem here."   </p>
<p>Moran shakes his head. "He's the one who started it, not me. Threw a punch." He nods up the corridor. "You can check the CCTV."   </p>
<p>The officer shifts his attention to Moran. "You want to file a crime report?"   </p>
<p>Moran catches John's eye and a malicious grin spreads over his face. "Yeah. I mean, the man's a lunatic. This is the second time he's tried to attack me."   </p>
<p>"Right." The officer turns back to John and says, "You have a choice. You can agree to accompany me back to the station, quietly, or I will cuff you here and now. What's it going to be?"   </p>
<p>Drawing a deep breath before letting it out in a big sigh, John shakes his head. "I'm not going to make this any worse. Lead the way." </p>
<p>  </p>
<p>oOoOoOoOo </p>
<p>  </p>
<p>"Christ, John. I do not believe this. How many times is this going to happen?"   </p>
<p>Lestrade is staring at him, concern warring with annoyance in his expression. The DI had turned up the police station alongside Waterloo train station about ninety minutes after John's allotted phone call. John's watch, wallet, keys and phone had been taken from him and he was formally arrested, then put into an interview room until the DI could arrive.   </p>
<p>John's anger has dissipated since the confrontation with Moran, and now he is filled with remorse and a bit of shame. Being escorted through the train station and out the other side—that had been had enough, but as they turned right onto the little road that looked more like an alley way than a dead-end, Moran had burst out laughing and pointed to the street sign.   </p>
<p>"Holmes Terrace. How brilliant is that?! What would he think of his little pet being arrested?"   </p>
<p>The irony was not lost on John. After the police had reviewed the CCTV footage, John could see why they would assume he was the guilty party. The thing about a video camera is that it doesn't capture audio, so no one will know the amount of provocation that Moran had thrown at him. It would just be his word against Moran's. And given that the man has filed a crime report, the police will have to take it seriously. He knows what Sherlock would say. You're being an idiot, John, letting emotion get in the way of cold logic.   </p>
<p>"Greg, just tell me how to make this go away."   </p>
<p>The DI rolls his eyes. "I'm not Mycroft Holmes, you know. It's only lucky that this time you didn't manage to inflict any damage on Moran. The best I can talk the police into is giving you a Conditional Caution. So long as you admit to the assault, that's likely to involve twenty hours of community service and a referral to an anger-management course. You might want to consider bereavement counselling, too."  </p>
<p>"What's the alternative?"   </p>
<p>"You're guilty. If you fight this, you'll go to court and get slapped with criminal conviction on your record that will make it damned hard for you to ever get work as a doctor again. How many times do you need to be told to stay away from this guy?"   </p>
<p>"He was following me."   </p>
<p>"That's not what he said. He was going to the train station when you recognised him and attacked."   </p>
<p>John shakes his head but raises his hands in surrender. "I know what it looks like; he set me up really well."   </p>
<p>"And you fell for it. So, stay away from him. Now let's go get this paperwork done so you can go home." </p>
<p>  </p>
<p>oOoOoOoOo </p>
<p>  </p>
<p><em> Fucking Sebastian Moran. </em>  </p>
<p>Stewing in the events of the day, John has gotten himself so riled up, that by the time he makes it home, he swears that he's going to explode. He knows that not thirty minutes ago he had promised Lestrade that he was going behave but the next time he sees Moran, he’s going to have his gun with him.   </p>
<p><em> Damn the consequences. </em>   </p>
<p>He’s too wound up by the whole day’s proceedings to do anything but charge up the stairs, hoping that Mrs. Hudson will not want to talk. He's in the process of hanging up his coat and scarf on the landing when the sound of a throat being politely cleared in the sitting room makes him freeze.   </p>
<p>He sighs but squares his shoulders and turns around to face his next adversary. Mycroft is currently sitting in what John will always and forever think of as Sherlock's chair.   </p>
<p>“Good afternoon John.”   </p>
<p>“What do you want?” He's too damned agitated to do anything but bark this at a man who he hates just marginally less than Moran.   </p>
<p>Mycroft lifts his chin. “I've come to discuss the matter of the flat.”   </p>
<p>“The flat? Come to tell me that since Sherlock is dead, you're giving me a month’s notice before you evict me? Give me a minute to mourn and I’ll go pack my bags, yeah?” Sarcasm drips from every word.   </p>
<p>Mycroft purses his lips.   </p>
<p>John stares him down.   </p>
<p>“No.” Mycroft clarifies, seeming to choose his words carefully. “The purpose of my visit is to inform you that I intend to maintain Sherlock’s part of the lease for as long as you remain at Baker Street.”   </p>
<p>“Ta, thanks for that,” John spits out ungraciously. “So now I'm a charity case, am I? Can't look after myself?   </p>
<p>Mycroft's face is impassive. “Hardly. But I do question your choice of sparring partner. Are you looking to get yourself killed, Doctor Watson? Next time, your opponent may not be satisfied by simply embarrassing you with an arrest record.”   </p>
<p>“My opponent? You mean <em>your </em>trained assassin!" John knows that his voice is rising and that he is rapidly losing control of his temper, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “Is Lestrade your little snitch now, or were you spying on me via your surveillance cameras? Ever the voyeur? Huh? You know what, Mycroft, just fu… “John manages finally to catch himself and takes a breath then calmly, dangerously smiles. “You. Can. Leave. NOW.”   </p>
<p>“It’s not going to help … all of this,” Mycroft sweeps a hand in the direction of the living room wall. “It’s not going to bring him back.”   </p>
<p>“I said, <em>leave now</em>.”   </p>
<p>Mycroft opens his mouth to speak and then his phone rings. He removes it from his pocket and frowns when he looks at it. He returns it to his pocket still ringing and then rises from the chair.   </p>
<p>“Good day, John.”   </p>
<p>John watches him leave from the window. He's too angry to notice that the black car that collects Mycroft drives away at a faster speed than normal. Even if he had, he wouldn’t care, he has a sudden overwhelming urge to break every bone in Mycroft’s body while naming them. The back legs of the chair scrape angrily along the linoleum floor as John drags it away from the kitchen table before depositing himself in it.   </p>
<p>If the plan, with all that ‘it’s not going to help’ bullshit, had been to deter John from his self-appointed mission of locating Sherlock’s body, Mycroft had well and truly missed the mark. Now John is even more determined than ever to see this through. Whatever tempering had taken place as a result of his arrest, has been incinerated by the white heat of anger.   </p>
<p>A tiny voice in his head whispers “don’t do anything stupid,” but John resolutely ignores it and opens his blog, ready to do battle with whichever commenter had mistakenly chosen this day to poke at him. Scrolling down the list of unposted comments awaiting moderation on the Baskerville write up, it is, he finds, unhelpfully devoid of moronic commentary. A few non-believers and a couple of unsolicited advice providers but nothing of note, certainly nothing worthy of a fight.   </p>
<p>He continues down the list until … <em>What the ever-loving …?  </em>The mouse hovers over the third comment from the bottom.    </p>
<p>
  <em> When you omit an obvious fact you only deceive yourself </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p>John stares at the comment.   </p>
<p><em> What fact? Do they mean Sherlock’s attempt to drug him using the sugar in his coffee? If so, how do they know about that? Is it Mycroft? No, he’d never </em><em>make </em><em>use of such a username. There were others there. The scientist, Stapleton? Who else did he tell about what Sherlock had done? </em>   </p>
<p>He stares at the comment some more. If he wants to reply to it, he’s going to have to post it to the blog. Does he want to reply? Sure he does. He has questions. And to be honest, it’s actually the most interesting thing that has happened to him in a long time. He clicks ‘approve’ and turns off the moderated comment function.   </p>
<p>Then he responds to the comment.   </p>
<p>
  <em> Which obvious fact did I omit? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p>He waits. The message was sent hours ago. Chances are whoever it is (who is it?) is off doing something else by now. He is about to turn away from his laptop and fix himself a tea when he gets a ping of response:    </p>
<p>
  <em> You tell me </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend</em></b></span>
</p>
<p>He jabs at the keys, getting the question out as quick as he can: </p>
<p>
  <em> Who are you? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p>  </p>
<p>
  <em> Didn’t you read my username? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p>John pauses, grits his teeth and types back determinedly:  </p>
<p>
  <em> I don’t have friends </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p>  </p>
<p>
  <em> Maybe you have just the one </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p>  </p>
<p>Is this guy, person, whomever, fucking serious?   </p>
<p>
  <em> Maybe you need to sod off </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p>  </p>
<p><em> If you wanted me to sod off, you wouldn’t have bothered approving my comment to post or replying to it. I note that you have also turned off the moderated comment function on your blog too. </em> </p>
<p><span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend </em> </b> </span> </p>
<p>Loathe as he is to admit it, ‘mister smartarse’ is right. And John still wants to know, so he tries the direct approach:   </p>
<p><em> How did you know about the sugar? </em> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson </em> </b>   </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> What sugar? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> The ‘obvious fact’ I omitted. The sugar. The sugar in the coffee. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> I think you need to ask yourself why you omitted it? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Why won’t you answer the question? Who the hell are you? </em> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> I told you. A concerned friend </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p><b>  </b> </p>
<p>
  <em> And I told you that I don’t have any friends </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> You do now </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p><b>  </b> </p>
<p>
  <em> Why are you doing this? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Doing what? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Talking to me </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p><b>  </b> </p>
<p>
  <em> It seemed like you could use some help </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p><b>  </b> </p>
<p>
  <em> Help in doing what? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p><b>  </b> </p>
<p>
  <em> Amongst other things, locating a body </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p>… and just like that, John is back at the same point he was at the beginning of the conversation. <em>What the ever-loving …? </em>He’s just about to type a response, something along the lines of why? how? where? When there is another comment.   </p>
<p><em> I have something I need to take care of right now.  </em> <em> We can continue our  </em> <em> discussion </em><em>at </em><em>another time </em> <em> . </em></p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p>John stares at the laptop screen for what seems like forever. It appears that he might have found a lead. And that’s a good thing, isn’t it? Closure? Isn’t it what he’s been looking for?   </p>
<p>The time spent this morning hadn’t been wasted after all … Well, at least some of it. The arrest and near charge though … he runs a hand over his face. <em>Fuck</em>. He'd come close to losing his ability to practice medicine by reacting to Moran's taunts. That thought alone should be enough to convince him to walk away from all of this. But he seems to be set on a path of self-destruction, and now he has a ‘friend’ to show him the way.   </p>
<p>He gets up from the table and takes the laptop with him to the couch, stretching himself out and propping the device up on his chest. The warmth of the battery starts to seep through the plastic casing into the front of his shirt. He hadn’t realised he was cold, and it occurs to him that he should start a fire, but he can already feel the thickness of sleep tugging, softening his edges.   </p>
<p>He’s almost asleep when he remembers Mycroft’s words; <em>Sherlock’s part of the lease</em>. <em>Shit</em>, he hadn’t really given that any thought, hadn’t wanted to have to think about it. He’s never going to be able to afford this place on his own. He looks around, so much stuff, all their stuff. He could never walk away from any of this, even if the flat is forever quiet without Sherlock, without his violin, without those gentle notes pulled from talented fingers.   </p>
<p>Sherlock's beautiful fingers. How John worshipped them. The way they seem to form part of the instrument. A pale, sinewy wrist turned slightly to the left, the fingers of one hand cradling the neck, the fingers of the other curved gently over the bow. How many times has he watched the navy-blue dressing gown man sway with the symphony?   </p>
<p>The last notes fading away, bow released, Sherlock turns from the window. John knows the smile spreading across his face is probably verging on goofy, but he doesn’t care. Sherlock takes his time, carefully putting his violin away in its case.   </p>
<p>“Are you going to make me wait forever?” John queries fondly.   </p>
<p>Sherlock crosses the living room floor to where John is standing and tilts his head to the side, inky black lashes coming to rest against his cheeks in slow, languid blinks. John brings his hands up to cup the outside of Sherlock’s shoulders, running his fingers over his biceps, shifting the silk underneath in slow circles with his thumbs.   </p>
<p>He could stay here, right here forever, he thinks. Lost in this moment. Lost in the hands on his arms, on his face, his lips on cheekbones and neck. It’s slow and fluid as the golden particles of dust, captured by the light shining in from the window, dance and swirl about them.   </p>
<p>Down the hallway, to their bedroom, bed still unmade, as he had left it. Sheets still warm to the touch, enveloping. Clothes slide to the floor, shed unhurriedly as they move with and against each other.  </p>
<p><em> Naked. Finally. </em>   </p>
<p>His tongue tasting the tea and lingering toast as his fingers map the lines and curves and crevasses of the expanse of skin before him. So goddam beautiful, he could cry. Shifting thighs bring tight cries as silky leg hairs slide over hard shin bones. Cold feet forgotten or ignored in the warmth of the touch everywhere else. He can still hear the music, the notes, washing over him as he reaches between them, hand slick, cocks together. Fingers slide and stroke, as he plunders that beautiful mouth until he finds his release with a whimper and a sob.  <br/>
 </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Eleven:</p>
<p>Music for Chapter 11 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Oblivion(Reimagined) - Zayde Wølf • Oblivion (Reimagined)<br/>Fire in My Bones - Fleurie • Arrows<br/>Church - Lawless, Valen • Church<br/>(link to playlists in fic summary)</p>
<p>Check out this <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/611625642747969536/sherlocks-london-southbank-waterloo"><strong>post</strong></a> for some images of Southbank Waterloo.</p>
<p><a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/612041325101137920/7-percent-few-escape-the-gallows-chapter-11"><strong>Holmes Terrace</strong></a> really does reside alongside Waterloo Station. What do we say about coincidences?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. There was a crow who was no sleeper,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sebastian huffs to himself as he plops down on the couch in the living room of the Soho flat. With Watson crawling away from jail back to Baker Street, he finds himself alone and bored. Jim is God knows where and he needs a distraction … and some food. Most of his energy over the last few weeks had been spent ensuring Jim's safety at the inquest and as a result the kitchen is bare. Sebastian actually enjoys cooking when he is in the mood and is quite a good cook when he puts his mind to it. </p><p>He opens his laptop to make an Ocado order but then slams it shut again in frustration. The fact that he doesn't know if he's ordering for himself alone, or for the two of them, is a bit more salt in the wound. </p><p><em> What the hell is Jim up to? </em> <em> Why a</em><em>re he and Watson both equally obsessed with finding Holmes' body?  </em> </p><p>He can understand the doctor's motivations; after all, he'd been Holmes' pet and pets pine when their masters die. The thought makes Sebastian even more annoyed with himself. </p><p><em> Is he any better, pining after Jim? </em> </p><p>He is, however, thoroughly pleased with the way today’s events transpired; he couldn’t have planned it better. Taking the bait, Watson had ended up arrested and cooling his heels in a jail cell, saved only by the arrival of Holmes’ Met connection. The loyal Detective Inspector must be getting tired of Watson’s antics by now. As it was, he definitely did not look impressed at having to bail Watson out of a tight spot yet again.  </p><p>“This is getting rather tedious, Detective Inspector,” Sebastian had goaded when the DI approached him at the police station, attempting to smooth things over. “First he attacks me outside the pre-inquest hearing and again today.” </p><p>The DI’s expression remained impassive, but the frustration leaked through as he rubbed a hand across his face. “I’m sorry. You have to understand, Doctor Watson is just going through a bit of a rough patch right now.” </p><p>“Well, he’s just lucky it’s me he keeps taking a swing at,” Sebastian had offered with a magnanimous smirk. “He could do some serious damage to someone with all that uncontrolled rage of his.” </p><p>“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” the DI had assured before hurrying off, ostensibly, to have a stern word with the aforementioned doctor. </p><p>Based on Watson’s sullen demeanour upon exiting the station, the conversation between the two had hadn’t been to Watson’s liking. And to Sebastian’s continued satisfaction, the man’s day kept going from bad to worse. </p><p>Following him back to Baker Street, Sebastian had been present to witness the subsequent exit of Holmes the elder. A quick review of the surveillance feed of the Baker Street living room and Sebastian became privy to the less than pleasant exchange. Though he squashed it like a bug as soon it appeared, he had felt an uncharacteristic pang of sympathy for Watson being on the receiving end of all that sanctimonious bullshit, having himself been there many times in the past. He and Watson share an intense dislike of the elder Holmes. </p><p>Now, bare feet propped up on the glass coffee table, Sebastian flicks through the channels on the flat screen with little interest and then angrily throws the remote into the arm chair. Television… what on earth could ever compete with the life he's led with Jim? Their partnership of crime is addictive—the two of them taking on the world by the scruff of the neck, making it bend its knee to Jim's genius. There is nothing, nothing that can match the way working with Jim gets Sebastian's adrenalin pumping through his veins. Well, maybe the sex that always comes after one of Jim's triumphs. That's as thrilling.  </p><p>Which brings him back to him sitting on a sofa bored out of his mind. Life is not the same when Jim is playing hide and seek, keeping his exploits to himself. Sebastian gets a perverse kick out of the sexual use that Jim makes of him; it only becomes abuse when they're not committing crimes together.  </p><p><em> Fucking Sherlock Holmes. </em> </p><p>Sebastian can hate the dead man for still exercising some kind of fascination for Jim.  </p><p><em> Fucking John Watson. </em> </p><p>At least the pet is still around. But If Watson wants to avoid a criminal conviction, he is going to have to lay low for a while and that gives Sebastian … no one take his frustrations out on. Maybe it's time to poke something into life.<em>There’s always the self-righteousness git himself.</em></p><p>Sebastian opens the app on his phone to the surveillance feed on Mycroft's townhouse and shares his mobile signal to the widescreen on the wall.</p><p>There he is, in 43-inch, full-colour, high resolution smugness. Suit jacket hung over the back of a kitchen chair, umbrella propped up against it. Holmes is fixing himself a tea, with the sort of upper-class fastidiousness that Sebastian had come to loathe at Eton. To start, the kettle is boiled and the first bit of hot water swirled into the china tea pot and then poured out. <em> ‘Always </em> <em> warm the pot’ </em> he remembers being told. <em> ‘If you are going to act like one of the privileged classes, then you need to know this’</em>, Mycroft Holmes had lectured. </p><p>And lectured, and lectured. Every second Sunday for two years, Sebastian’s ‘debt’ to Mycroft Holmes was paid off in excruciatingly boredom, being ‘groomed’ for his destined role in the secret service. He was never allowed to forget the fact that his upbringing was on a North London estate, a far cry from the gentrified neighbourhoods of his fellow Eton students. And to think he had been grateful in the beginning. Grateful for the chance to break free of endless cycle of poverty and illness that had beset his mother, abandoned by his father when he was only two years old. She had done the best she could, with what little she had, but it was never enough to make ends meet. Sebastian had often gone to school hungry or just not gone to school at all.  </p><p>Whilst Sebastian might not have had much given to him, he had learned how to take what he needed. With a talent for circumventing security systems and devoid of any fear of being caught, by the time he was ten Sebastian was pretty sure that he had, at one time or another, been inside the homes of half of the students in his year. That was before he moved upmarket, and started thieving from Knightsbridge. The advantage of wealthier targets was that if he kept to items that weren't outrageously expensive, it was quite likely that their owners wouldn't even notice they were gone.  </p><p>Just shy of his thirteenth birthday he made the mistake of tackling a four storey Georgian townhouse that seemed to have a more elaborate security system than most. Perhaps it was the challenge that attracted him, so he watched the place for days, before one afternoon he'd spotted his chance, slipping in a back door left open by a cleaner. He'd hidden in an under-stairs cupboard, amongst the mops, brooms and general debris. He'd waited until all noise in the house stopped, and the kitchen light he could see under the door went out. He then went wandering. Having collected a few items of silver from the mantelpiece in the sitting room, he had strolled into the study only to find the owner, relaxed as can be, staring back at him from his chair by the fire. </p><p>“Your talents are totally <em> wasted </em> on garden-variety thieving,” Mycroft Holmes had declared in that received pronunciation of his. "You are doing this because you are bored and like a challenge, not because you really care about the money you'll get for those." He’d gestured Sebastian to sit in the chair next to him. Intrigued, Sebastian had warily accepted the invitation to sit down.  </p><p>Mycroft Holmes had taken a keen interest in the recent spate of thefts across Knightsbridge. In particular because they had involved the hacking of upmarket security systems. Child’s play for Sebastian, whose time not receiving a state sanctioned education had been spent in a neighbour’s house while they were away for the winter, exploring all the ways to work around a home security system. Finding the control box and re-routing wires that dealt with alarms had been a much more interesting education than what was on offer at the local comprehensive school. It had taken time, but he'd learned how to build a jamming device to cause a blip in the security video stream, long enough for him to slip in and slip out.  </p><p>It had been enough to catch Mycroft Holmes’ attention and to lead to the proposition that his talents could be put to better use. And the rest was, well, history now. </p><p>Sebastian has learned a lot about security systems since that time, all courtesy of the man he now watches open the tea caddy and put three teaspoons of loose-leaf tea into the pot, before checking the water has cooled just enough. “Eighty degrees for green tea; one hundred for black," he says in a parody of Holmes' voice. "Three minutes brewing for green, five for black." </p><p>Today Holmes is going for a single estate Assam tea, and Sebastian knows that it means he's had a hard day. If the man is in a good mood, he chooses something more delicate—a Darjeeling or Yunnan tea. The robust stuff is <em> ‘only appropriate in the afternoon or when you are in need of something stronger’ </em> the lecture had continued. Sebastian is getting a kick out of being able to spy on his former boss and deduce his state of mind. </p><p>Personally, Sebastian likes his tea bags—Yorkshire Gold by preference, although he will happily drink PG Tips if that's all that's on offer. Less fuss, no mess and a damned sight easier to make a single cup. He can see when it's the strength he likes and pull out the tea bag; none of this timing stuff. Who wants a whole pot of tea anyway? </p><p>Mycroft Holmes apparently does, and the stronger the better, because he's left it brewing for more than five minutes. Something is going on. Underlined by the glances the elder Holmes keeps making towards an item resting in the middle of the kitchen table. <em> Interesting</em>. Sebastian drops his feet from the table onto the carpet, leans forward, perching his elbows on his knees and zooms in on the object. Mycroft’s phone. </p><p><em> What or who has ruffled the feathers of the unflappable Holmes the elder? </em> </p><p>Sebastian gets his answer a moment later when Mycroft picks up the device and, presses a key. After years of surveillance work, Sebastian knows that the position of that key on a blackberry is a replay. A familiar Dublin lilt fills the room: </p><p><em> “At the tone</em><em>, </em> <em> it will be two o'clock.” </em></p><p>The message concludes with two ‘pips’ that are identical to the old talking clock recording. </p><p>Is this message part of Jim's grand plan? It doesn’t make any sense to Sebastian, though that’s not unusual. Jim and his cryptic mind games often leave him perplexed at the beginning. But when they start to play out and Jim brings him in on the plot, Sebastian can’t help but marvel at their sheer brilliance. Jim’s artistry is revealed in the way they casually unfold before an unsuspecting victim who doesn’t have the intellectual capacity to realise they are orchestrating their own demise, their evisceration. </p><p>The milk is poured into the china cup and then the tea. One swirl of the teaspoon to mix thoroughly, and the very speed of it tells Sebastian that Mycroft is annoyed and even a bit rattled. When the phone on the table rings, he watches Mycroft smack the cup back down into the saucer with enough force to rattle the bone china before picking it up. </p><p>The fact that Mycroft doesn't speak, but just opens the connection, tells Sebastian that this is the call he's been waiting for and that it is likely to be from someone who is working for him. After a moment's silence during which time Sebastian wishes there was a way to bug the man's bloody phone as well as the flat, Holmes barks an order, “We need everything that is scheduled to be in the air at two o'clock.” </p><p>Whatever lackey Mycroft is talking to, they seem high up enough on the food chain to feel comfortable questioning the man in charge as his next words are, “No, I don’t know if it's a.m. or p.m. and no, I'm not sure that it is necessarily confined to the skies.” </p><p>Sebastian can hear an uncharacteristic uncertainty in the man's voice as he continues. “But the first one was aviation and the time was meridian a.m., so start there. Once you have that, widen the search to all transportation and all time zones coming up on two.” </p><p>There is a pause in the conversation as Mycroft listens to something, some additional information and then asks, “Anything on the message itself?” </p><p>The answer can't be what he is hoping for because he hangs up the call without further comment, and then sighs. His head turns towards the clock on the kitchen wall and Sebastian follows his gaze. At just past four in the afternoon, Mycroft and his team of minions have a little less than ten hours to figure out whatever scheme Jim is planning to pull off. Sebastian laughs to himself.<em> Not a chance. </em> </p><p>Mycroft takes a quick swig from the teacup and then picks up the phone, scrolling down a list and then thumbing the call button. It's answered almost immediately, because he states “There's going to be another one.” </p><p>Whoever is on the other end of this call is then given Mycroft's rendition of the Speaking Clock and the pips. Sebastian notes that Mycroft does not mention that it had been delivered by Jim, so presumably the person with whom he is speaking either knows this fact or Mycroft is deliberately keeping it from them. Whichever way, that fact is <em> interesting. </em> </p><p>"No, no further news from the other side of the pond. It is clear however that the flight was specifically targeted because the analyst was on board. Now that we've had warning of a second incident, perhaps things will become clearer." </p><p>When whoever is on the other end finishes speaking, Mycroft just sniffs. "Of course, I'll keep you informed," and then terminates the call without saying goodbye. </p><p>Sebastian's tradecraft sense is tingling. Holmes <em> knows </em> the person on the other end of that call well enough to be able to dispense with pleasantries, so not a superior. Well, that assumes the man actually has people to whom he reports, others to whom he is held accountable. Sebastian knows that Holmes' role within the intelligence services has always been ambiguous. The man seems able to move across the borders that traditionally separate MI5 from its brethren across the Thames at Vauxhall Circus, and equally able to direct the MOD's intelligence system and the National Crime Agency, as well as the Met's Counter-Terrorism mob. Jim has called Mycroft "The British Government, only better" because Holmes is not a politician who can be voted in or out of office. </p><p>It makes him an adversary worthy of Jim, and Sebastian begins to think he sees something of bigger plans here. The business with the little brother may only have been a feint, a ploy to take the elder Holmes' eye off the ball. Whatever Jim is doing out there, it's rattling Mycroft Holmes now. </p><p><em> ‘The first one.’  </em>Holmes' statement triggers a research reflex in Sebastian. A quick google search of airborne incidents occurring within the last 24 hours throws back a lot of results in relation to a British Airways flight turning up in Greenland rather than in the US. Confused officials, irate passengers. It’s got Jim’s name written all over it. Sebastian splits the screen on his laptop, keeping one eye on the video of a man drinking the rest of his tea, while opening a new file and starting a mind-mapping program, filling in a few boxes with the pieces of the first <em> event </em> and starts trying to figure out what the next one might be. He might be a little behind the game, but he’s a quick study. </p><p>Suddenly his afternoon has become a little less boring. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Twelve</p><p>Music for Chapter 12 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Beggin For Thread - BANKS • Goddess (Deluxe)<br/>Snake Song - Isobel Campbell, Mark Lanegan • Hawk<br/>Short Change Hero - The Heavy • The House That Dirt Built</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. There was a magpie, too,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Turn this song up to full volume when you are reading this chapter:<br/><a href="http://youtu.be/BDWLv-1MCXc"><strong>Mister Impossible</strong></a>, Phantogram</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> If. I. Told. You. You'd. Think. I. Was. Crazy, yeah.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I'm. The. Sun. And. The. Moon. And. The. Stars.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I'm. The. Earth. I'm. The. Water. You. Walk. On, yeah.</em>
</p>
<p><em> I'm. The. Sun. And. The. Moon. And. The.  </em> <em> Stars</em><em>.</em></p>
<p>The staccato beat resonates off the thirty-foot relief ceiling, causing the chains of crystal glass beads suspended from the canopy of the imposing chandelier to shiver in response. </p>
<p>
  <em> Dead guy</em>
</p>
<p><em> I </em> <em>wanna </em> <em>see the light</em></p>
<p>
  <em> What's on the other side?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Will that satisfy me?</em>
</p>
<p>Standing in the middle of the floor-to-ceiling window encompassing the entire north side of the top floor state room of St. Ermin’s Hotel, Jim runs his gaze from right to left over the powerhouse that is the English political and legal systems. From the Houses of Parliament to the Ministry of Justice, as far as his eye can see, under the increasing cover of the darkness of a winter afternoon—his playground. His eyes narrow in calculation on a cavalcade proceeding up Tothill Street. Ministers, Supreme Court Justices. Civil servants. The minions he chooses either to do his bidding or to destroy. The whole world, his to do with as he chooses. </p>
<p>Placing the palms of his hands on the cool surface of the double glazing and leaning forward towards the window, he drops his head. His neck hangs loosely from his shoulders as he sways back and forth in time to the title line. </p>
<p>
  <em> Mister Impossible</em>
</p>
<p>Does it give him a special thrill to be here? Of course; you don’t build a beach if you want to hide a pebble; you just find a shingle beach. And where better to hide in plain sight, orchestrating the downfall of the British Empire’s most dedicated civil servant than here—St Ermin's, the home base for secret British spies and the wartime intelligence community in the 1930’s. He prides himself that even the stiff upper lip of one Mycroft Holmes couldn’t fail to curl in response to the blatant antagonism of making this symbolic gesture. </p>
<p>
  <em> Right now</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I see a million miles</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Feel like the holy child</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> And let the night keep rolling</em>
</p>
<p>He spins away from the window to survey the bank of LED monitors behind him displaying a myriad of information. On split screens, the primary and secondary radar systems track London Heathrow's inbound and outbound flights. On eight different laptops sitting on the marble conference table, he is able to view the flight activity in an out of UK airspace. The three-dimensional Airspace Explorer app published by NATS is all well and good running on one of his iPhones, but he likes to check to see how that is overlaid with the military aircraft spaces above normal commercial and cargo plane ceilings. </p>
<p>His link to the NATS systems is yielding all flight data displayed on three of the laptops—one each for the Flight Information Regions of London, Scotland and Ireland, with another one showing the Shanwick Oceanic FIR that is jointly run with the FAA's systems in America, Prestwick in Scotland and Ireland's systems based at Shannon. </p>
<p><em> So easy to crack once you know the right person willing to insert a thumb drive into just the right port on the third drive stored in a blade rack buried in the bowels of an operation centre</em><em>. </em> </p>
<p>It will look impossible, but of course it's not. Simple, really. Just use old-fashioned techniques to get someone to open a door and he's in. That person will die later tonight, a victim of a hit-and-run collision in southern Dorset that no one will ever connect to him. Tidy. Neat. </p>
<p>Jim can't resist the smirk as he pumps up the volume on the Bosche system, knowing that the hotel has soundproofed all of the suites to ensure confidentiality. </p>
<p><em> Isn't it exciting? (what am I </em> <em>gonna</em> <em> do?)</em></p>
<p>
  <em> Feels oh so inviting (just what you wanted to</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Is this what you wanted? (Mister Impossible)</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> No time for deciding (Mister Impossible)</em>
</p>
<p>The soundtrack is <em>so </em>appropriate. </p>
<p>He sits down in the cushioned leather armchair and brings up his control app on one laptop, this one linked to the Prestwick centre in Scotland. One of the other laptops is linked to Swanwick in Hampshire. Switching to the machine code that ties the CAA into both air traffic control systems, he watches the live feeds on the two laptops. Cracking his knuckles while keeping his grin under control, Jim pastes a new line of commands into Swanwick's Air Traffic Control data on one particular British flight inbound to Heathrow. Performing a myriad of calculations in his head, Jim knows exactly how to triangulate two moving objects in three-dimensional space and what control tower course commands are going to be needed to bring them to within spitting distance of each other over the skies north of London. Buried in the code is a time-delay, and he glances at his watch as he inserts a new line of code into the system managing the outward-bound American Airlines flight leaving Heathrow on its way to JFK. He counts down the seconds so he can hit the return key at exactly the right moment. It wouldn't do to get this wrong; there has to be <em>just </em>enough time to avoid the collision. </p>
<p>As the computer clock hits 58 seconds, Jim taps the key and sees it go live into the code stream exactly two seconds later. He's paid quite a lot of money for the satellite uplink. Trusting a hotel Wi-Fi system and the internet in general is just too unpredictable. </p>
<p>Now, on yet another laptop, he calls up the London Terminal Control Centre's traffic. This manages all the traffic below twenty-four thousand five hundred feet, flying to or from London's airports. The LTCC's servers were easier to crack than the FIR systems, because it has an international footprint. This airspace is one of the busiest in Europe and extends across the Channel south to the borders of France and the Netherlands. So many corruptible people willing to do the necessary for him.</p>
<p>Again, a sequence is tapped in, but this one has special commands attached, to bury it deep. It will only wake up when the LTCC is passed control of the two flights. The commands will alter the data being communicated by the flight controllers to the planes, bringing them closer and closer, without any evidence appearing on their screens. No alarms will sound; no warnings will be heard. </p>
<p>
  <em> Red sky</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> And now I see your eyes</em>
</p>
<p><em> It's </em> <em>gonna</em> <em>be alright</em></p>
<p>
  <em> It's so electrifying</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Right now</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> My mind is opened wide</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> My heart is satisfied</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> The light is overflowing</em>
</p>
<p>Falling back into the smooth black leather of the chair, Jim throws his feet up onto the table, places his hands behind his head and surveys the scene with satisfaction. All he has to do now is wait until two a.m. Not long now. </p>
<p><em> Isn't it exciting? (what am I </em> <em>gonna </em> <em>do?)</em></p>
<p>
  <em> Feels oh so inviting (just what you wanted to)</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Is this what you wanted? (Mister Impossible)</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> No time for deciding (Mister Impossible)</em>
</p>
<p>There’s a knock at the door. Room service.  </p>
<p>"ENTER!" he bellows. (<em>Will you walk into my parlour? said the Spider to the Fly)</em>.  </p>
<p>He likes the look of this one—a young twentyish thing, all long limbs and boyish smile. Jim can't resist. Setting up this next hack has riled him up and he's <em>hungry </em>for more than dinner<em>.  </em>Just as he's letting his imagination loose, the iPhone on the table vibrates, and Jim glances at the number. A nuisance; he really has to answer this. </p>
<p>As the hotel employee wheels in the trolley, it’s clear the lad's trying to earn a big tip from the VIP guest. It’s cute how hard they try. And even cuter to see them fail. Bringing the phone to his ear, Jim drops his feet to the floor, stands up and strolls over to the doorway as the connection is made. The young thing (‘<em>Carlton’ </em> his name tag reads) starts to speak but Jim puts his finger to his lips in a shushing motion and indicates the phone at his ear. Carlton stays silent but the metal covers on the plates of food rattle nervously on the tray the closer Jim gets to him. He gives the Carlton his coyest smile and the boy’s cheeks redden pleasingly. </p>
<p><em> Not Sebastian, but young Carlton could be a little fun while waiting for the main event of the evening ... </em> </p>
<p>Carlton sets the tray down on the table near the door and steps back again, placing his hands behind his back unsure as to what to do next. Jim listens to what the caller is being paid to deliver to his ear, while watching the hotel employee. He knows Carlton has never done this VIP service before. He knows because that’s what he always requests—someone new, someone with promise. And that equates to young, eager and infinitely corruptible. Usually Jim would put in a bit more effort, but why bother when they are so handily delivered to him in their black long-sleeved shirts and pressed flat front trousers. Topped off with a gold tie—all wrapped up in such a pleasing way, and all for him. </p>
<p>Jim is brought back to business, however, when the caller tells him something that he was not expecting to hear. </p>
<p>“WHAT!” </p>
<p>Young Carlton practically jumps sideways at the snarl, knocking into the side table, wobbling the glass of water and causing some of the contents to slosh over the side and onto the linen napkin underneath. The stain spreads rapidly along with his mortification. </p>
<p>Jim’s next words do nothing to dissipate the look of sheer terror on the boy’s face. “If that’s true I’m going to make you into shoes." </p>
<p>Jim flashes Carlton an overly apologetic smile, rolling his eyes dramatically as he mouths the word, “Work.” Carlton manages a weak smile in return. </p>
<p>"Wait." Jim issues the command to both the caller and to Carlton as he turns back to the boardroom table and wakes up the last laptop. He keys in a few strokes and up pops the Military Air Traffic Control system. Still with the phone to his ear, Jim drops his gaze down to his right trouser pocket and then back up Carlton, flicking his eyes back down again. <em>Would you mind? </em>A look of embarrassment and confusion comes over Carlton’s face but when Jim mouths “your tip” and gestures to his pocket. Carlton nods, lifting a hand, the fingers of his left hand shaking as he slides them gently into Jim's trouser pocket to extract a hundred-pound note. </p>
<p>Carlton’s eyes widen when they register the amount, unsure if it is meant for him. Jim nods and mouths, “Won't be long."  A few more keystrokes, and then Jim stands up again, the smile returning to his face as he gives the hotel employee another winning grin. Into the phone, he barks, "False alarm. Stand down for now." He cuts the connection and drops the phone on the table. </p>
<p>Head tilted, Jim slowly brings a hand up to Carlton’s face. Carlton is still watching him all wide-eyed, but the instant the back of Jim’s fingers brush gently against his cheek, the boy’s eyes slide shut and he leans into the touch. </p>
<p>
  <em> Got 'em.</em>
</p>
<p>The boy's a tad too willing, and perhaps Jim's nerves are set a little highly strung at the moment, but it doesn't take him long. Bent over and with his face crammed into the high back of the black leather chair, Carlton takes Jim's savage thrusting with some stoicism, probably willing himself to endure it in the hope of getting a bigger tip. </p>
<p>With one eye on the LTCC laptop, Jim watches the BA flight get held in the approach stack over Bovington, just as planned, and the departure of the American Airlines flight in real time. So far, the screen is showing him exactly what the controllers are seeing. He's the only one to know that the BA flight has in fact already been released and is now starting its descent straight into the ascending flight path of the American Airlines flight. His orgasm comes shortly after, and he quickly pays Carlton another hundred and shoos him out the door.</p>
<p>The problem with these little distractions of his is that the sex is mindless and does little to satisfy. Sebastian is the only one who knows how to scratch the itch that drives Jim. He's the first, the only one that matters and these little diversions like Carlton only emphasise that fact. Sebastian and he had explored each other's bodies at Eton. While the other boys were busy pursuing their little crushes, Jim had conquered Seb, a boy who became the man who never bent the knee to anyone, a ruthless killer who would destroy anyone who got in his way, anyone except Jim. That such a man accepted Jim's genius, allowed him and him alone to dominate has come to define who and what Jim thinks he is—<em>invincible</em>. That he could seduce his Tiger and turn him into a weapon against Holmes made their relationship doubly intense. No bell boy could ever compete. </p>
<p>It is unfortunate that Jim's plot needs Sebastian to be visible. Leaving him out there, like a lightening rod to attract attention, is a statement to Holmes, He'd have liked to have his Tiger here, to witness his triumph. But, he won't let sentiment cloud his judgement; Jim needs to appear invincible, untouchable, beyond reach. If that makes Sebbie uncomfortable, well; it will make their reunion after Holmes' fall all the more spectacular. </p>
<p>As it is, the last five minutes of this little stage performance only needs an audience of one. </p>
<p>Switching his phone to the live tower transmission, Jim smirks. What is it about NATS? Once it was privatised, they seemed happy to put everything onto an app available to the public. He thinks that only the most avid of plane spotters would be interested in the sixty planes taking off or landing every two minutes at Heathrow. </p>
<p>Jim lines up the three laptops and prepares the code to re-set their systems to show the real situation. His own lines of inserted code will disappear at that moment, too, leaving no trace. Counting down the seconds, Jim then hits the return key on the LTCC and Swanwick systems simultaneously, and then taps the return on the laptop showing the military system. </p>
<p>Leaning back in the chair, he closes his eyes and enjoys all hell breaking loose on the live transmission from the tower. </p>
<p><em> Better than sex. </em> </p>
<p>Jim's not sure whether he enjoys more, the panic in the American Airlines First Officer’s voice or the sound of the sonic boom as two jets scramble from RAF Linkenholt. The jets break the sound barrier in their haste to reach the BA plane, which has seemingly appeared way off course over north London. </p>
<p>Jim is tucking into his steak tartar when the hotel windows rattle, and he raises his glass of 1988 Chateau Margaux in a silent salute. He had hoped for something like the military response; in these post-9/11 days, no one can be complacent about airplanes appearing where they shouldn't be. </p>
<p>His iPhone vibrates again. This time he’s happy to take the call, keen to gloat with someone over his success. </p>
<p>"Was that you, knocking on Holmes' door?" </p>
<p>The tone in Sebastian’s words conveys his overt admiration, and Jim basks in it. </p>
<p>“What makes you think that was me?” he asks, fishing for more compliments. </p>
<p>“Because yesterday you pissed off a whole lot of people by re-directing a flight to Greenland and today you are causing fighters to scramble over London.” </p>
<p>Jim smirks. Sebastian has been doing his homework. </p>
<p>“Just having a lil fun, Tiger. What about you. Missing Daddy yet?” </p>
<p>“Wouldn’t have to if you did this all from the flat,” Sebastian grumbles. </p>
<p>“You know what they say,” Jim pronounces grandly, waving his glass in the air. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” </p>
<p>“Bullshit”, Sebastian retorts, “absence makes you realise just what an arsehole everyone else is. You'll be back when you bother to remember me. Maybe I won't be here ...” </p>
<p>Jim laughs like that’s the funniest thing he has ever heard until he hears a huff and then a click as Sebastian hangs up on him. </p>
<p><em> Dear </em><em>Sebbie</em>, he thinks. He really is worth all the trouble. With his show of insubordination in the washroom of the coroner’s court with Watson, Jim had seriously considered putting a leash on him. But the punishment later that night had sufficiently reinforced his orders. He has no fears that his Tiger will go walkabout. </p>
<p><em> His pet. </em> </p>
<p>Laughable, really, that Mycroft could ever have thought that he could compete with him for Sebastian’s attention, let alone use Sebastian against him. What did Mycroft think that he could offer? An introduction to the ways of the ruling elite? A ‘better’ life? Mycroft had misjudged the man entirely. Sebastian had certain proclivities, a gravitational pull towards violence and bloodletting to name just two. Proclivities that would never be satisfied by being told what to do by a bunch of boring old codgers talking about the glory days of the British empire. Jim had seen that fire in Sebastian the instant Mycroft had sent him into his path. He had found it child's play to learn all about who had sent him and why he had been sent there. In the beginning, the fun was in seeing just how much Sebastian had to twist and turn, trying to do his ‘job’ while falling deeper and deeper under Jim’s spell. In the end though, Jim found Sebastian useful in his own right. His knowledge of MI5 tradecraft, its rules and codes, copies of internal floor plans of MI6 headquarters and the location of security alarms, Sebastian had all the right connections (helpfully provided by Mycroft Holmes) to provide Jim with no end of useful information to assist him in his business dealings. </p>
<p>Sebastian’s skill with a gun being second to none, he had yet again proven his worth in Morocco. Guerin—that arrogant little insect—had failed to follow directions, nearly putting an end to all of Jim’s plans. With Sebastian as the agent in charge, assigned by Mycroft Holmes himself, the problem had ended up being taken care of nicely. A single shot to the forehead, right in front of Sherlock and his Doctor. <em>He really should have sent Mycroft Holmes a thank you card. </em></p>
<p>Jim's game with Mycroft Holmes has grown over the years. Originally he'd been flattered by the attention, but the more he'd learned about him through Moran, tweaking the man's nose became just a way to pass the time, alleviate the boredom of a tedious existence in a world filled with lesser beings who couldn’t see his potential. Only later, when he'd left Eton and forged his own way, did Jim come to appreciate the full extent of Mycroft Holmes’ capabilities and reach. It’s the quiet ones in the back corridors of power you have to watch. The ones that don’t flaunt their power or wealth. The ones content to sit in the shadows while their machinations play out in the light. </p>
<p>Jim isn't one for skulking in the shadows. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing it <em>BIG. </em>He’s always wanted to wear the crown—after all, no-one calls you honey when you’re seated on the throne. recognition means no one dares question you. The whole plot of his is going to turn Mycroft Holmes into the intelligence world's laughingstock. <em>Easy </em><em>peasy</em><em>. </em> </p>
<p>The younger Holmes, now he had been the exception. All Jim's life he has been searching for a challenge worthy of his attention. Sherlock, he was the nearest, and now Jim doesn’t even have him. Out of the picture. He still isn’t quite sure why that happened. Sherlock wasn’t meant to jump that soon. Pity. Mycroft Holmes aside, Sherlock had been the only one capable of holding his attention for any length of time. But fall he did, and fall the big brother will as well ...  </p>
<p>But now, for tonight’s finale. Picking up his iPhone again, he shoots off a text message to the personal phones of the Captains of the BA and American Airlines planes: </p>
<p><em> Tell your respective bosses that this is only the start. M </em> </p>
<p>Then he forwards it, untraceable of course, to Mycroft Holmes and his CIA counterpart along with a follow-up message: </p>
<p><em> I’ve given you a glimpse, just a teensy glimpse of what I am capable of. You know what to do. Instructions are attached. M </em> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The openness of NATS and the access which the public has to these transmission streams of air traffic control data is... true. Quite remarkable. just a tad scary in the opinion of 7-percent, who is more Mycroftian in their concerns about national security than many people. </p>
<p>Inspiration for Chapter Thirteen<br/>Music for Chapter 13 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Mister Impossible - Phantogram • Mister Impossible<br/>Black Sea - Natasha Blume • Black Sea<br/>A Little Wicked - Valerie Broussard • A Little Wicked</p>
<p>The phenomenal <a href="http://youtu.be/4Mg5vU9zgZM"><strong>video edit</strong></a> of Phantogram’s Mister Impossible by the supremely talented BakerEdits.</p>
<p>Where better for Moriarty to hide in plain sight than in the luxury hotel in London that was once a secret spy base: <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/612655288108105728/where-better-for-moriarty-to-hide-in-plain-sigh"><strong>St Ermin’s</strong></a></p>
<p>And a little <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/613260396554534912/few-escape-the-gallows-the-missing-mi6-floor"><strong>background</strong></a> on the missing MI6 floor plans.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Made him one of the things that were,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>THE CABINET OFFICE, Briefing Room A</p><p>70 Whitehall, London SW1A 2AS  </p><p> </p><p>Mycroft does not care for this room. There is something rather soul-less about the place. Blond wood panelling, a video wall that allows as many as eight split screens to be patched into a single visual plane. The huge table with its power sockets and USB ports sits like a stage in the centre of the room, lit by a harsh fluorescent strip inset into a ceiling that is too low. He knows that much of the electronic wizardry in the room is hidden in the walls, floor and ceiling—all designed to make this one of the most secure places in the Western world, a zone in which ‘difficult’ problems can be discussed without fear of being overheard or hacked.  </p><p>This room lacks any real sense of history. He would be far more comfortable if he were sitting at a table in a House of Commons committee room or even in the more modern surroundings of Portcullis House. He's made a career of facing a row of politicians ostensibly charged with ‘getting to the bottom of things’ but in reality, just seeking a plausible story to placate their constituents. Mycroft is good at meeting those needs.</p><p>Alas, with Moriarty now wreaking havoc on the skies, Mycroft is instead seated in the briefing room reserved for the ‘real’ discussions. This is the ‘no excuses’ room, a place of <em>mea culpa</em>. Where serious conversations between the grown-ups happen, whenever the proverbial shit hits the fan. And last night over the skies of London, that sonic boom which had managed to get everyone's attention.   </p><p>COBRA—Cabinet Office Briefing Room A. No filming, no notes, no advisers sitting off to the side, or Hansard recorders watching the proceedings from behind glass with headphones over their ears. Just Mycroft and the heads of the three intelligence services, the Prime Minister and Lady Elizabeth Smallwood, his Special Adviser on security matters. The Permanent Secretary, Sir Edgar Laithwaite is also in attendance. Mycroft takes no comfort from the fact that all six of them are sitting opposite him.  </p><p>This should not have happened. He should not be sitting here having to explain who Jim Moriarty is and why he is a threat to national security. Agent Moran should never have gone rogue and Moriarty should not be in a position to cause him this much damage. How much Mycroft will be able to keep quiet and how much should he reveal without causing himself difficulty? So far, their questioning has been predictable, and he has placed a thin dossier on Jim Moriarty in front of each of the six of his interrogators. <em>What they don't know can't hurt me. </em>  </p><p>The report of the three intelligence services is sitting in front of the Prime Minister. It names Jim Moriarty as the likeliest perpetrator, given the voice analysis of last night's message to the two pilots. The Prime Minister is looking disgruntled. He'd had to cancel a speech in Manchester in order to be present at this meeting. He stabs a finger at the file. "This says he's a person of interest. That means <em>your </em>lot are supposed to be watching him. Why didn't we know this was going to happen?"  </p><p>Mycroft adopts a neutral tone. "We keep an eye on people like Jim Moriarty—criminals with the potential to raise their game. before now his activities here in the UK have been rather … mundane, and were being investigated by the Metropolitan Police. They decided not to prosecute for lack of evidence."  </p><p>"I am not sure, Mister Holmes, that mundane is the appropriate word for a crime spree that cost your brother his life." The Prime Minister’s tone is far less neutral and far more disapproving than Mycroft's had been.  </p><p>He considers a future when the Prime Minister's statement about Sherlock's death will have to be exposed as a ruse. If Mycroft can actually manage to win the day, that little lie will have to be explained,  as will his original interest in Moriarty. Driven by his desire to protect the interests of the Britain both at home and abroad. Mycroft had wanted to see whether Moriarty’s innate mathematical genius could produce a key code capable of undermining the key infrastructure of UK resiliency in the face of a terrorist attack. The idea was to catch him doing something wrong and then use it as a means to recruit him. Flipping ‘black hat’ hackers into ‘white hats’ is a standard recruitment exercise. With Moran as his mentor, Moriarty could have been the world’s best weapon against hackers from China and Russia threatening the UK and US systems—both in terms of key infrastructure and political manipulation. Moriarty had other ideas, and Mycroft now recognises the man's infuriating ploy of serial suicides had been designed to distract Sherlock (and him, too, it has to be admitted) while Moriarty got on with planning this latest series of crimes. His original intentions might have been in the country's best interests, but it's all gone horribly wrong. <em>The path to hell is paved with good intentions.</em></p><p>"Why you? Why are <em>you </em>the one receiving this maniac's phone calls?" The Prime Minister is not the useful idiot that his bumbling personal image projects. Mycroft has never underestimated the man's intelligence as this question demonstrates. The PM goes on to hit the nail on the head quite firmly. "Why didn't he call a newspaper, or just tweet about it? I mean, you're not exactly a celebrity. How would he even know who you are? Why did he send payment instructions to you?"  </p><p>Mycroft shifts uncomfortably in the black leather chair. "He's aware of my existence because of a failed operation in Morocco, six months ago. Our man, Sebastian Moran had infiltrated Moriarty's network and was providing an excellent level of intelligence on activities, which suggested the Irish national was involved in a money-laundering scheme for the benefit of a number of Islamist groups in north Africa. Moran was able to neutralise the French middleman in Morocco, but to our surprise he disappeared immediately after. He turned up a couple of months later at Moriarty's estate in Ireland."  </p><p>The Prime Minister is frowning. "So, is this man Moran still on our side or has he gone native? What is he to Moriarty?”  </p><p>It's the Director General of MI6 who throws the next bit of information towards the Prime Minister. "Someone who knows Moriarty from way back when. Moran was offered a position with my service just after he finished school at Eton, where Moriarty went, as well. Turned it down and went off to the Special Forces and was dispatched to Afghanistan almost immediately."  </p><p>Mycroft nods. "At first, he was an exemplary soldier until an operation in Helmand province went seriously wrong; the rest of his group were killed in a nasty firefight which the official report said was due to an error of intelligence. When he returned, he took up the offer of an MI6 post."   </p><p>Mycroft is not about to offer what he has subsequently found out about that recruitment. <em>No need to add fuel to the fire. </em>What Mycroft had not known back then was that far from placing Moran with Moriarty, the Irishman had actually recruited him first.   </p><p>The Prime Minister has the file open and taps a bullet point halfway down the page. "An Eton boy, like Moriarty. They knew each other at school?"  </p><p>Mycroft nods. "Both Villiers House."   </p><p>The Prime Minister sniffs, and for once Mycroft is tempted to agree with him. Both he and the PM had been at Godolphin House, although their years never overlapped.  </p><p>"So, no prior warning from him about Moriarty's plans? I mean, how the hell can this guy hack into the Air Traffic Control systems on both sides of the Atlantic? Are you really sure it's him and not some state-sponsored hackers like the Russians or North Koreans?"  </p><p>"Yes. We are sure." The GCHQ Director General is categorical. "Completely different signature. This is so damned sophisticated that the embedded code must have been in the ATC system only for the very short time needed. It's a whole new level of cyber-penetration; makes the on-board hack yesterday look like child’s play."  </p><p>Sir Edgar is not amused. "Tell that to our American friends. I gather, Holmes, that they are none too happy with this situation."  </p><p>Looking up Mycroft sees the eyes of the people upon him. "No, they're not. The CIA liaison is my next port of call after this meeting."  </p><p>"What's the potential damage if the truth leaks?"  </p><p>"So far we've kept Moriarty's name out of the papers. The Americans concocted a story about a defective transponder failing that got the Greenland incident off the front page."  </p><p>"Half of London woke up in the middle of the night. How do we explain that?"  </p><p>"The MOD's press release this morning was the truth. Two fighters were scrambled over Linkenholt to intercept a cargo plane with communication difficulties. It's been buried as just another example of our forces keeping London safe from terrorist attack."   </p><p>The PM looks frustrated. "This nutcase is escalating. If he really does bring down a plane, it's not going to be containable. So, what are our options? What are we going to <em>do</em>?"  </p><p>Mycroft draws breath. "The message sought payment in the form of bitcoin. It's something that both ‘5’ and ‘6’ have been working on, and we think there is a way to attach a tracking code to it that won't be picked up by anyone. With your agreement now, I can authorise payment. When it is traced to the criminal, we'll have the evidence we need to arrest him. And the receiving exchange is on Malta. We will inform the authorities there that this is a bogus transaction and a crime in progress. We shouldn't lose any money."   </p><p>The PM is frowning. "What happens to our policy of no ransom payment to terrorists?"   </p><p>Mycroft gives a rather pained smile. "He's not a terrorist, sir. Just a common criminal with delusions of grandeur. We will catch him."  </p><p>Lady Smallwood nods, and the Prime Minister takes a moment to consider the implicit agreement that her gesture gives him. Mycroft hopes that her support will prove decisive; she's been a good ally in the past. When the Prime Minister asks each of the others whether they agree or not, Mycroft is relieved to hear that they do.   </p><p>"So, somewhat against my better judgment, Mister Holmes, I am going to give you permission. On one condition, that you tell the Americans what you are planning to do. And then it's on your head when things go wrong."    </p><p>Mycroft gets to his feet and his phone is already in his hand as he leaves the room.  </p><p>  </p><p>OOoOoOoOo  </p><p>  </p><p><b> <em> -Three Hours Later- </em> </b>  </p><p>  </p><p>With his elbows on his office desk, hands clasped together resting against his mouth, Mycroft regards the final line of Moriarty’s text for the third time since he'd arrived back at the Diogenes Club. Is it too much to hope that his team will be able to track the madman via the link to provide the ransom payment in bitcoin?  </p><p>Wishful thinking<em>,  </em> he berates himself. Is this what he has been reduced to?   </p><p>Despite the official American policy of not paying ransoms to terrorists, Mycroft has been able to convince the powers that be on the other side of the Atlantic that the combined intelligence of the British National Crime Agency's cyber-finance team and GCHQ will be able to tag the bitcoin payment to lead them to the criminal behind the hack. Yet, knowing what he knows about the Moriarty—which is a great deal more than he has been willing to tell anyone else—Mycroft knows this is the act of a desperate man.  </p><p>He gets his answer with the next text message to arrive on his phone:  </p><p>
  <em> The tags didn't work. The payment disappeared as soon as we deposited it.</em>
</p><p>Of course it did. Moriarty is no fool. The man just orchestrated a mid-air-near miss without leaving a trace; he’s not likely to provide directions to his front door.  </p><p>Mycroft drops his hands to the smooth surface of the mahogany wood, running his hands outwards across the inset burgundy leather before getting to his feet. No point in putting off the inevitable. He asks Anthea to call the driver. </p><p>"The usual, sir?"  </p><p>"Hardly usual, my dear. He'd be most offended to hear you call him that."  </p><p>In the back seat of the Bentley, Mycroft is consulting his pocket watch when his phone rings to tell him a new message has arrived. It's from Anthea.  </p><p>
  <em> 16.10 Something's arrived by email just now, with an attachment. Scanned for viruses. None detected.</em>
</p><p>It's titled, <em>“Receipt for services rendered."  </em>The attachment is a photo of an online customer feedback form. The three smiley faces satisfaction rating system taunts him as he forwards the message to Sherlock then pockets his phone. When the car pulls up on Montague Street by the gates to the garden, Mycroft's out of the car before it comes to a halt and it speeds away.   </p><p>Time to face the music with the only person who is able to appreciate just what is at stake.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Fourteen </p><p>Music for Chapter 14 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>In the Conservatory With the Revolver - Audiomachine • Another Sky<br/>Stretch Your Eyes - Agnes Obel • Citizen of Glass<br/>A Remarkable Man - Audiomachine • La Belle Époque</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Alongside weasel and crow,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"<em>Now</em> do you believe me?" The sarcasm in Sherlock’s question, posed as soon as Mycroft walks through the door of the Montague Street safe house and into the living room, is thick enough to be cut with a knife. </p><p>"I didn't doubt you, brother mine,” Mycroft replies coolly, “I just didn't grasp the full horror of what the madman is willing to do." </p><p>Sherlock sniffs. "I could have told you that it wasn't about the ransom; he's just doing that to put the wind up the Americans." </p><p>Mycroft's smile is pained. "It would have been preferable not to have found out the hard way. His casual subversion of the Bitcoin system is gratuitously annoying. It means we are obliged to inform the EU financial authorities." </p><p>Sherlock writes up "EU" on a post-it note in an alarming pink colour and walks to the evidence wall. He has moved the materials he'd put up there, pushing the old crimes to above and below a strip that goes from the corner of the room all the way to the curtains covering the windows out onto Montague Street's private gardens. The airplane that went missing over the Atlantic before showing up in Greenland has a whole series of post-its clustered around a big hand-drawn clockface with the hands at one o'clock. He slaps the pink note onto the area surrounding the next drawing, showing two o'clock.  </p><p>"Yesterday, America; today Europe, tomorrow the world?" Sherlock murmurs. "Genius loves a global audience, so this latest development is exactly what he wants. The more people watching you make a cock-up of this, the better. Have you <em>finally </em>realised that this is a revenge plot, pure and simple?" </p><p>"There is nothing simple about this," Mycroft retorts, jabbing an index finger at the transcripts of the pilots' conversations, pinned next to the two o'clock drawing.  </p><p>For once, it is Mycroft who is pacing up and down in front of the evidence wall; Sherlock returns to his chair and stares at the apparition of his brother in an agitated state. Sherlock is alarmed but also slightly amused, and wonders if that is a bit not good. The three smiley faces on the customer satisfaction message seem to have been the final straw that broke Mycroft's <em>I-am-calm-in-a-crisis </em>façade.  </p><p>Sherlock decides that this is too good an occasion to pass up, and presses home his point. "Surely subverting the ATC system is something that you have considered before." </p><p>"Of course, we have." Mycroft's annoyance makes his tone of voice waspish. "However, all simulations in the past have assumed a terrorist or military opponent; not a criminal like Moriarty." </p><p>"You made him."  </p><p>"That's not fair. I saw the depths of his intelligence and attempted to divert it into useful channels." </p><p>"Hello, Doctor Frankenstein," Sherlock waves, knowing it will irritate his brother. "Or perhaps you should repent, like Doctor Oppenheimer did when he witnessed the first atomic bomb test; "I am become death, the destroyer of worlds." </p><p>That stops Mycroft in his tracks. "Do not quote from the Bhagavad Gita at me! He's the monster, not me. And there was supposed to be a failsafe mechanism, in the shape of Moran, who would know what to do when and if the time came to put an end to the monster because he was out of control."  </p><p>"Well, we both know how that's gone." Sherlock tries to avoid sounding too snide. He wonders if it is good time to mention the other conclusion that he'd come to, once he posted up the ATC text message that had been sent to each of the pilots telling them to pass on the news that they'd been hacked and the near-miss they'd just survived was only the start. Instead of the London Terminals Control Centre's call sign ending the message that came up on their screen, it had been signed 'M'. </p><p>As Mycroft makes a third circuit from the windows to the wall, Sherlock decides that he needs his brother to take this personally. He takes an A4 sheet of bright pink paper from the pile on the side table and uses a marker to draw a giant letter M. He walks to the wall and right in the middle, in the empty space to the right of the two o'clock, he blu-tacks it up.  </p><p>"You do know that when he signed the ATC message with the initial M, that it is also <em>your </em>initial.” </p><p>“What of it?” </p><p>“He's setting you up, Mycroft." </p><p>"Don’t be absurd. Everyone on both sides of the Atlantic who got the voicemail version of that ATC message moments later knows it was Jim Moriarty. The voice pattern match is conclusive." </p><p>"Don't you see? He's going to make this tie back into you; you'll become the mastermind behind the plot. Jim is just the frontman, <em>your </em>monster. And Moran's links to you are going to come out in the open. How many people know about you putting him in Eton?" </p><p>"No one, thank God. They know the two of them attended, but not the fact that I recruited him as a teenager specifically for the purpose of cultivating Moriarty." </p><p>"And you think that gives you protection?" Sherlock can barely contain the rising incredulity from his voice. "On the contrary, it just makes it that much easier for him to frame you."  </p><p>Mycroft stops in his tracks. "This is about protecting the country, Sherlock, and our allies, not to mention the millions of people who use the airlines every day—not just as passengers but as consumers of the goods that travel by plane. He cannot be allowed to hold the countries to ransom. Rather than hypothesising personal motives, you really need to focus on what you think the three o'clock threat is going to be and when it is going to take place. We need to anticipate his next move." </p><p>There is a chime that intervenes before Sherlock can reply. Both of them turn their attention to Sherlock's laptop, sitting open on the dining room table.  </p><p>Sherlock gets to it first and opens the app responsible for the notification alert, his eyes narrow on the screen and then he turns around to glare at Mycroft. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“What?” Sherlock mimics in annoyance and then indicates to the laptop. “This is what!” </p><p>Mycroft’s moves to stand behind him, reading the words on the screen over his left shoulder—John‘s blog and the last message Sherlock had sent him:  </p><p>
  <em> Apologies for having to leave so quickly yesterday, now about that body</em>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend</em></b></span>
</p><p>Then, John’s reply—the cause for the notification, and Sherlock’s glare: </p><p>
  <em> I’m not so sure I am looking for a body anymore</em>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson</em></b></span>
</p><p>Sherlock responds cautiously: </p><p>
  <em> How so?</em>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend</em></b></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m really not sure I should be talking to you about this. I don’t even know who you are.</em>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson</em></b></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You know that I want to help</em>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend</em></b></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Right. Fine. The thing is, there is something strange about the final DNA report. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I just got a copy of it from the DI in charge of the case. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They tested the blood, on the floor, after the incident. But it doesn’t make sense.</em>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson</em></b></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What doesn’t make sense?</em>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend</em></b></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The blood. It’s not all his.</em>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson</em></b></span>
</p><p>And there they are. The words that could completely unravel all his carefully laid plans. </p><p>"Bugger." Mycroft gets on his phone. In a matter of minutes, he has received a copy of the report in question and forwarded it to Sherlock. Sherlock scans it quickly. Indeed, the last two lines present a significant problem. In one of the six samples taken from the floor of the Old Operating Theatre, the results are: </p><p><b> 93% OF SAMPLE MATCHED TO W.S. SHERLOCK HOLMES </b> <b> ;  </b> <b> 7% UNKNOWN </b> </p><p>"If he connects this to your transfusion and the use of the EpiPen,” Mycroft points out, as he forwards it to Sherlock, then your "Dead Disguise" is less than airtight."  </p><p>“Damnit, Mycroft,” Sherlock growls, “don’t you have more control over your minions?” </p><p>“Detective Inspector Lestrade is not my minion. You <em> were </em> aware that this report would inevitably be published after the coroner's inquest. It's not surprising that Doctor Watson would convince the Detective Inspector to provide him with a copy when it was completed. After all, he has studied your methods. I can’t just make evidence disappear.” </p><p>“Your monster seems able to do exactly that,” Sherlock retorts snippily. “I don’t see why you can’t.” </p><p>Mycroft rolls his eyes, and places an index finger on his temple, clearly trying to bite his tongue. Mycroft being Mycroft, however, he can’t resist a riposte. “Please do not take your annoyance with yourself out on me, brother mine. The fact of the matter is that your ‘magic trick’ wasn’t as perfect as you would have hoped.” </p><p>“It couldn’t have been <em>perfect </em>unless I was <em>dead,” </em>Sherlock retorts. </p><p>“Clearly,” Mycroft enunciates the word carefully, “you lack commitment.” </p><p>They both stare at each other for a moment, Mycroft’s eyebrows raised in mock question and Sherlock’s narrowed in annoyance. Then, Sherlock breaks the impasse by laughing.  </p><p>"What, you would prefer I died for real and left you to flounder alone in the mess you've made with Moran? How could you be so naïve as to think you could control Moriarty through him?" Sherlock and turns back to his laptop screen which has chimed again. His fingers tighten imperceptibly on the mouse as he reads John’s reply to his last comment. Mycroft peers over his shoulder. </p><p>
  <em> Sorry, I have to go. I have to talk to someone about the report.</em>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson</em></b></span>
</p><p>Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin and closes his eyes.  </p><p>At the same, Mycroft’s mobile rings. Sherlock’s eyes are still closed but the pursed-lipped intake of breath he hears behind him tells him all he needs to know. Mycroft lets the call go to voicemail. When his voicemail pings he sets it to speaker and presses play: </p><p><em>‘At the </em><em>third tone, </em><em>the time will be three o'clock.’ </em>  </p><p>Three pips follow.  </p><p>This time it seems, Moriarty has more in store as Mycroft’s phone pings shortly afterwards with a new text message alert. </p><p>Mycroft turns to Sherlock after reading it. “He’s demanding pre-payment or he’s going to bring a plane down this time.” </p><p>Three o'clock is less than nine hours away. The clock is ticking, and they are rapidly running out of time. </p><p>"You'll just have to ignore your Doctor and get on with this,” Mycroft informs him matter-of-factly. “You need to focus. How would he plan to bring down a plane? Which plane? Where? To what purpose?"  </p><p>"You won't get permission for pre-payment," Sherlock points out.  </p><p>"Of course not. The PM is already going to have my head on a block. I can't expect the other service chiefs to back me again. They'll do what anyone would do in their circumstances—blame me and run for cover."  </p><p>Mycroft heads down the hall to the kitchen. "I'm making coffee. It's going to be a long night. Have you eaten anything today?"  </p><p>"Of course not." </p><p>"I need your brain to be functioning, Sherlock." </p><p>"Then order in some cocaine." </p><p>That stops Mycroft in his tracks. He turns to look over his shoulder. "I'm not that desperate." </p><p>"You should be."  </p><p>"Perhaps if you were less distracted by that wretched blog, you'd be able to focus more on the real problem facing us." </p><p>"What's that? Your inability to control your monsters?" </p><p>Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Perhaps I should include you in that group of annoyingly rebellious personnel." </p><p>"I'm not working for you, Mycroft." </p><p>"Then prove it. Stop wasting time on Watson. <em>FOCUS!"  </em>For once in your life, use the intelligence you were given to do something for the greater good—deduce what the third pip is likely to be. If we don't get ahead of Moriarty this is going to end very badly." </p><p>His brother has a point, and it makes Sherlock look back at the three o'clock drawing he'd pinned to the wall. Grabbing a set of blue post-it notes and a marker pen, he thrusts them both at Mycroft. "Write," he commands. </p><p>"We know this will be an escalation. So, what's the most effective way to do that? We know he can disrupt and corrupt air traffic control systems without detection. He's gone from putting a place off course, to a near miss. He's done both in a way that keeps it off the front pages of the newspapers.  </p><p>“This time he's going to take a plane down—a crash that will cost lives. Write <em>DEATHS</em>," he waggles a finger at Mycroft who dutifully complies and places the post it on the clock face.  </p><p>Now it is Sherlock's turn to pace. "He's targeted American and British air systems, in order to maximise the pressure on you. Two o'clock was our turn. The balance of probabilities says it will be the American's turn next."  </p><p>Mycroft writes <em>USA </em>and posts it.  </p><p>"But with a British flavour. Check all flights leaving the USA for UK destinations that will be in the air at three o'clock our time. And then because he's a sneaky bastard, do the same for three o'clock Eastern Standard time." </p><p>Mycroft pulls his Blackberry out and his fingers fly over the tiny qwerty keyboard. "On it."  </p><p>His phone pings almost immediately, and he reads out, "Fourteen hundred flights cross the Atlantic every 24 hours." </p><p>"Mid-ocean is when the planes are at their most vulnerable, because radar can't reach beyond two hundred and fifty miles offshore. ATC manages the positions by cockpit reports every ten degrees of latitude. Most now go via satellite to Prestwick." Sherlock has been busy on the NATS system, coming up to full speed on the way air traffic is managed. He points back at the post-its around one o'clock. "That's how he was able to fool the flight into heading off to Greenland without anyone noticing. I've found the onboard hack and traced the cockpit reports that fooled the American's into thinking they were on course." </p><p>Does Sherlock take any pleasure out of the surprise that blooms on Mycroft's face? Yes, he does. His brother might think he's been sitting on his arse for the past two days, but he is getting closer to figuring out how Moriarty is working.  </p><p>"So, write this … two hundred and fifty miles off the Canadian coast, heading towards the UK. Flight paths from Chicago westwards go over Greenland and will be visible on radar for longer, so again, we can eliminate those, because Moriarty will want to maximise the amount of time he has to make the plane come down. So, look for the designated flightpaths on the NAT-OTS…" </p><p>"What's that?" Mycroft looks up from his phone keyboard. </p><p>"…North Atlantic Organised Track System… it's dynamic, meaning the exact number of the flight paths change every day depending on wind and weather conditions on the jetstream, as well as demand. They're set each day at seven am by Canadian ATC at Gander." </p><p>Sherlock reaches the wall, and spins on his heel to pace in the opposite direction. His hands have come up beneath his chin, in a prayer shape. </p><p>"It's going to take place somewhere between the 49th and 48th meridian west, probably about ten minutes flying time from the 49th in order to be sure to be off radar. The southernmost of the six tracks is vulnerable the earliest, that comes at between 50 degrees and 49 longitude west. If I were you, I'd share this with the Americans and suggest that an AWACS might be conveniently positioned to see what happens beyond the two-hundred-and-fifty-mile radar radius. It might make a difference to survivors." </p><p>"Then you need to factor in time zones. He might be clever enough to set this up to happen at three am Atlantic Time, which is the equivalent of America's Eastern Daylight time. Get someone to input all flights originating in the USA that are due to cross into the danger zone at three am Atlantic Time. Then run the same exercise for three am our time, which would be at ten pm in the middle of the Atlantic the day before."  </p><p>Mycroft is side-eyeing him with alarm. "That widens the timescale, Sherlock. Are you suggesting that we cancel dozens of flights? Who's to say that it won't be a flight from the UK to America?" </p><p>Sherlock stops and looks back at his brother. "Moriarty will want to maximise the pressure on you. Your name is already mud with COBRA; he'll be going for the CIA and NSA next."  </p><p>"I suppose that is logical."  </p><p>"Get your people to send me the list of flights that meet these criteria and I might be able to eliminate some of them." </p><p>"What do you propose we do? Cancel the likeliest flights?"  </p><p>Sherlock snorts. "What's the point? He'll just bump down the list. And even if you cancelled them all tonight, what's to stop him from doing it tomorrow night or the night after? It's not going to help catch him. He needs a target; we need to find a way of giving him one that won't cost lives. If we do this right, we might find out more about how he is doing this." </p><p>Sherlock stops pacing, and glares at his brother. "Piss off and let me think. You standing here exuding panic is distracting." </p><p>"I'm not panicking, Sherlock." </p><p>“No?” Sherlock eyes him curiously then pronounces, “You should be."  </p><p>oOoOoOoOo </p><p>One hour and twenty-eight minutes later, Sherlock texts Mycroft: </p><p>
  <em> 16.10 BA Flight 214 dep Boston 21.25 arr LHR 0855 tomorrow.</em>
</p><p><em> T minus nine hours 15min</em> <em>.</em></p><p><em> Get to work</em> <em>. </em> <em>Give him something to shoot at, but not what he expects.</em></p><p>Sherlock’s eyes flick to John’s blog page which is still open on one of the tabs on his laptop. He closes his eyes and when he opens them again a moment later, he clicks on the ‘x’ in the top right-hand corner and exits the page. </p><p>Mycroft is right, John is going to have to wait. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Fifteen</p><p>Music for Chapter 15 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>The Second Hand Ticks - Audiomachine • La Belle Époque<br/>Trouble - Lawless, Valen • Lawless<br/>Army of One - Shelby Merry • Oracle</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. To hang and flap in rain and wind,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Mike, Mike Stamford!” John calls out to the figure ahead of him as he hurries down the corridor of Ward 3d in St Bartholomew's hospital. Barts Heart Centre is one of the biggest in London, with over seventy beds and ten operating theatres, so John is delighted that his quarry isn't ensconced in surgery somewhere. He hadn’t given the man a heads up that he was going to pay him a visit, so when Mike stops walking and turns around at the sound of his name, he is understandably thrown for a moment before his round face splits into a grin.  </p><p>“John,” he exclaims as he walks back towards him, transfers his file of patient notes from his right hand to his left, and shakes John’s hand enthusiastically, “it’s good to see you.” The expression on his face then turns to something a bit more like concern as he carefully asks. “How’ve you been?” </p><p>John doesn’t answer and instead jerks his head to an empty patient waiting area. “Do you have a moment? Can we talk?” </p><p>“Of course,” Mike hastily assures him, “I'm on my way to a consult but it's not urgent, so I can spare about ten minutes." </p><p>Settling into a couple of ugly plastic bucket-chairs next to a large plastic plant, Mike turns to John. “Look, I’m really sorry. It was such a shock. And I wasn’t around for …” </p><p>John cuts him off, looking down at his feet and the scuff marks on his shoes, “it’s okay, I wouldn’t have wanted to attend the inquest if I didn’t have to, and there's no reason why you should have been there. But I do need your help with something now.”  </p><p>Mike waits patiently as John fishes the DNA report out of the pocket of his Barbour jacket and hands it to him. </p><p>“It’s this,” John explains, gesturing to the paper that he places in Mike’s hands. “This is the final analysis done on the blood at the scene.”  </p><p>Mike gives it a curious look, "How did you get this?" </p><p>"Well, you know an inquest is a public enquiry, so the report gets published a couple of weeks after the verdict. I badgered DI Lestrade for a look at it before it's released next week. He'd been sent a copy—and all the supporting documentation—to check the police stuff was complete. This was the final forensic report on the blood found in the Old Operating Theatre." </p><p>John gives Mike a moment to scan the front side and then flip the page over to the back. Mike finishes reading and lifts his head up to look at John thoughtfully. “What are you thinking?” </p><p>“Assuming it’s not a mistake, if 7% of the blood is of unknown origin then it has to have come from someone else.” </p><p>“Jim Moriarty?” Mike prompts. </p><p>John raises his eyebrows at him. </p><p>“I read the papers, John,” Mike says gently, “I know what happened at the inquest.” </p><p>John rubs his face. “Yeah, right, really wasn’t at my best during that,” he ruefully admits; “haven’t really been at my best since all this started.” He pauses for a moment before going on to answer Mike’s original question. “No, that much was ruled out. It didn't match anyone on any official database, so Moriarty was off the hook. And his sidekick, Moran is on the military databases, so it's not his either.” </p><p>“So, someone else then? I know it's hard to believe that Sherlock would take his own life. Are you thinking that someone else was there; that he didn't do this on his own? Didn't the Coroner rule homicide out?” </p><p>John nods. "I know that the verdict said that the balance of probability was suicide, but I don't buy it. I never have and I never will." </p><p>Mike flips the paper back over again. </p><p>John decides he can risk sharing his theory with Mike. It had come to him last night when he'd been trying to work out how one of the blood tests could show this odd DNA, when the others didn't. “The 7% makes me think maybe the question isn’t whose blood is in that 7%, but how it got there.” </p><p>Mike's eyes narrow on him. “There were other blood tests before this one, as part of the police investigation? And other DNA tests, like hair?” </p><p>John nods. "Yes, whatever else happened at the scene, a chunk of his hair had been cut off. It was tested for DNA; and it was his.” </p><p>“And the other tests came back as 100% Sherlock’s blood?” </p><p>John responds cautiously, “Yes, which means that this forensic blood test report—the one done for the inquest—shows that for one sample this 7% didn't show up in any of the samples so … what if it isn't an error?"  </p><p>“Go on.” </p><p>"Okay, here's an idea. What if Sherlock had a transfusion sometime before all that blood ended up on the floor of the Old Operating Theatre?" </p><p>Mike draws a breath and John can see the scepticism over his suggestion, so he cuts him off.  </p><p>“Hear me out. If blood found on the floor contained another person’s DNA, every test would have reported it, even the least precise ones. But if Sherlock had been getting transfusions of red blood cell platelets, there'd be no DNA, both you and I <em> know </em> that. But there's a limit to how much can be taken in a short time. So, what if the last blood shed had involved plasma, then the white cells would be in the serum and the unexplained DNA starts to make sense. That sample could be the odd one out. Not an error, but an indication of something else.” </p><p>John watches Mike process what he is saying, desperately willing him to seriously consider the idea. As the seconds tick away, the quiet waiting room becomes far too bright and way too loud.  </p><p>Finally, Mike looks up from the file. “But it says the blood was viable. It was all fresh. It had to have happened at the scene.” </p><p>“Did it?” John presses him. “We both know that if the need arises, you can store fresh blood for up to 24 hours, even 48 at a pinch and it can still be viable. And over a 24-hour period, you could harvest a lot of blood, as long as the patient is transfused with platelets."  </p><p>Mike doesn't look convinced. "What was the total estimated volume lost?” </p><p>John recalls what the dark-haired doctor at the inquest had estimated; “Two to two point five litres,” he confirms. </p><p>Mike considers it, then agrees with himself, nodding. “Yes, even that much wouldn't be a problem. It would take a pretty amazing set up, but maybe survival is possible.” </p><p>John blinks, and blinks again, it feels like all the blood has been drawn from his body. Mike’s words, confirmation of his theory, bounce around in his skull. <em> Survival is possible. Survival is possible. Survival is possible. </em> He can’t think to say anything past those words. Shock, he’s probably in shock, he thinks numbly. He's not dared think it could <em> really </em> be possible since the idea had occurred to him last night. </p><p>Mike is looking at him with growing alarm and reaches out to lay a hand—soft, comforting fingers on his arm. “Look, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying he’s alive, just that there may have been another way for this to have happened. You need a professional opinion, not my guesswork.” He looks down at his watch and then back up at John. “Look, sorry about this, but I have to go; that consult won't wait forever.” Then he gets out a pen and hastily scribbles a name and a phone number on the back of report. "Here, give Mary a call, she’s an A&amp;E consultant, so she should be able to tell you if it really is possible and what the mechanics would be. She’s pretty busy but usually responds to a text quite quickly.” </p><p>He places the report back in John’s hands and pushes himself out of the chair to stand up. “You take care, John.” </p><p>John’s not quite sure how long he had been sitting there, but when he looks down at the paper in his hand and Mike’s scrawl on it, it seems to shake him out of his fugue. He takes out his phone and sends a message to the number Mike has written: </p><p> </p><p><em> Got your number from Dr Mike Stamford. Hope this is OK. He said you might be able to assist with a question about critical blood loss and replenishment?  </em> </p><p><em> Dr John Watson. </em> </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t usually sign his texts that way, with his ‘official title’ but he figures it can’t hurt to imply that he has a bit of knowledge of medicine and that he is not some random weirdo. He sighs as he looks around at the waiting room.  </p><p>His mind begins to buzz with ‘what ifs’. <em>What if he’s right? What if Sherlock is not dead? Does this mean that this is all a game? Whose game? Sherlock’s? Moriarty’s? Mycroft’s? And what about Moran? Is he a part of all of this as well?</em> It’s a lot to digest, the possibility that this all was some kind of … set up. He needs some time to process everything … </p><p>Suddenly his attention is brought back to his phone as it buzzes in his hand. </p><p> </p><p><em> Not a problem. Mike’s a good friend, what would you like to know? </em> </p><p><em> Would it be possible for someone to shed 2.25 litres of blood and live? </em> </p><p><em> Over what time period? </em> </p><p><em> 24 hours. </em> </p><p><em> By accident or on purpose? </em> </p><p> </p><p>John hesitates before he responds, Mike’s words ringing in his ears.  </p><p> </p><p><em> On purpose. </em> </p><p><em> Tricky, but doable </em> <em> with medical help </em> <em> . The key would be to keep the circulating volume steady. Assuming they can get their hands on the stuff, they would need to take a dose of EPO. Then as the blood is withdrawn, plasma and red blood cells to replace it, along with fibrinogen + calcium, and balanced crystalloid, albumin. All of these things would make it possible for </em> <em> someone </em> <em> to shed that amount of blood, but they'd be weak as kitten. Probably going to be lacking in adrenaline, so they are going to need to take it easy for a while. </em> </p><p> </p><p>He texts back: </p><p> </p><p><em> Could it be mostly platelets at first? Serum just at the end? </em> </p><p><em> Could be. Key would be timing it precisely, so they don’t become hypovolemic. You'd need medical supervision, but I can't imagine any doctor being happy with this procedure…too damned risky! Why are you asking? </em> </p><p> </p><p>John doesn't want to arouse suspicions at this point. </p><p> </p><p><em> Relax; I'm not thinking of doing it; just want to know if it would be possible. Thank you so much. If I think of anything else, can I contact you again?  </em> </p><p><em> Happy to help. And sure, anytime. </em> :) </p><p> </p><p>John has to take several deep breaths before he can start to process the fact that both Mike and now this other consultant have in effect verified that his somewhat crazy idea is just about possible. He mentally recites the ingredients.  </p><p><em> Erythropoietin </em>; a hormone produced by the kidney—promotes the formation of red blood cells by the bone marrow.  </p><p><em> Fibrinogen + calcium </em>; a glycoprotein complex circulating in the blood of vertebrates—primary function to occlude blood vessels to stop bleeding. The addition of calcium accelerates the coagulation of oxalated plasma. </p><p><em> Balanced crystalloid </em>; used intravenously for volume resuscitation in critically-ill adults. </p><p><em> Albumin </em>; protein in the blood plasma—keeps fluid from leaking out of blood vessels; nourishes tissues; and carries hormones, vitamins, drugs, and ions like calcium throughout the body. </p><p>In summary, everything someone would need to assist their body in replenishing its blood supply. </p><p>It's the last item in the checklist and Mary’s text that seals it for him; <em> ‘Probably going to be lacking in adrenaline </em> <em> . </em> <em> ’ </em> The person would need something on hand in the event of an acute decrease in blood pressure or blood sugar. And the easiest way to obtain the drug would be via … an EpiPen. </p><p>The scene on the roof of Barts comes rushing back to him again, along with Sherlock’s words, <em> ‘a useful stimulant’ </em>. Not to be used as a junkie’s quick fix, but as a way of preventing catastrophic heart failure ... </p><p>John forces his head between his knees in an attempt to stem the nausea that is threatening to bubble up out of his stomach and into his mouth. <em> Deep breaths, deep breaths. </em> </p><p>It’s not working. He can feel his temperature rising with each passing second. </p><p>"Excuse me, are you okay?"  </p><p>Someone has just come to stand in front of his chair; he can see from her shoes that it's a nurse. John shakes his head, and mumbles. "Loo? I think I'm going to be sick." </p><p>"Follow me."  </p><p>He vaguely registers that the waiting room now has a few visitors, maybe even outpatients sitting in the chairs, and can feel their eyes on him as he staggers off, clutching the report to his chest. When the nurse opens a door marked "Toilet", he just makes it, bursting through the door and slamming it closed before the control over his stomach gives way and its contents empty themselves in wrenching heaves. It's into the tiny aluminium sink; the toilet is simply too far away.  </p><p>He stands there, head bowed, hands gripping the side of the sink under the blue light as the heaves subside. He turns the taps on full to flush the mess away and clean off his mouth. He takes a moment to survey the scene in the grimy mirror and he barely recognizes the face in front of him. Deathly white, he looks like he has aged ten years in ten minutes.  </p><p><em> Fuck. </em> </p><p>The nurse gives him a careful look when he slowly exits the washroom, closing the door softly behind him, but she lets him go on his way. </p><p>He doesn’t really pay attention to anything or anyone during the entire journey back to Baker Street. The outside world only starts to come back to him when he finds himself, standing in the middle of the living room, staring at the wall—at the post-it notes, and the random pieces of paper stuck next to them. The voice in his head warns him that this is a slippery slope. If he starts to believe and then it all amounts to nothing, he is going to fall harder and deeper into the pit of despair than he ever has before now. Would he be able to get himself out of it? Does he <em> dare </em> believe, when it could snap the last fragile threads that tether him to sanity? </p><p>He knows the answer. This is dangerous thinking. But he can no more walk away from the idea than he can fly; after all, what else has he got? He has to consider the possibility that Sherlock is indeed alive and try to work out what all of this means. It is possible that someone did this to Sherlock, but the fact that he'd showed up on the roof with the epipen suggests that he was at least participating in this farce. And for the time being, he is not going to question <em> why </em> Sherlock would choose to do it this way, to do this to him. That’s a conversation to be had with the living, face-to-face, should that ever be possible. So, he tucks that down deep inside him. </p><p>If Sherlock is alive ... If Sherlock <em> faked </em> his own death ... There must be a reason why he did it, why he felt he had to do it, why he thought he had no other choice. John reconsiders what happened on the rooftop at Barts, when Sherlock had left him after all those ugly words. But what if Sherlock had already decided to fake his own death, had already started the process? The presence of the EpiPen is possible proof of that. How long before that conversation would he have started? Was it the conversation with Moriarty in the morgue that convinced him to fake his death, or something else? </p><p>Moriarty’s games had been destined to end in only one outcome. After Moriarty sent Sherlock the video of the old man hanging from the tree, John's thought had been exactly that: <em> that they were all dead men. </em>  </p><p>Faced with the inevitable, what if Sherlock had found a way to circumvent it? The games had all stopped after Sherlock’s ‘death’. The ‘serial suicides’, the texts, the flowers; apart from John’s altercations with Moriarty’s guard dog Moran, everything had ceased. Moriarty had stopped playing with him when Sherlock died. Could Sherlock have made this decision for both himself and John without telling him? Would he do something so … cold? </p><p><em> No. Got to stop </em> <em> guessing </em> <em> about Sherlock's motive. </em> It will get him too angry. John tells himself to focus. What was the wording of the last text message Sherlock had received from Moriarty? He rummages around for the forensic report on the contents of Sherlock’s phone. There is so much mess on the coffee table that it takes him a few moments to find it. But when he does, there it is, at the top of page three: </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Roses are red  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>John’s blood is too  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>What happens now?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It's all up to you </em>
</p><p> </p><p>‘<em> It’s all up to you’ </em> … Oh God. Had Sherlock taken that literally? He stopped Jim from carrying out that threat against John. He found a way to cheat Moriarty—to cheat death—by dying first. </p><p>But wait, wasn’t that what Moriarty had been wanting all along, Sherlock to kill himself? </p><p>He groans in frustration. It's all so confusing.  </p><p><em> Focus. </em>In his interview with Lestrade, after Sherlock’s death, there was a moment when John thought Moriarty had seemed a bit wrong-footed by the news. John had assumed at the time that it was because Moriarty had been caught out. But maybe, maybe it was because he wasn’t actually expecting Sherlock to do it, to kill himself. Or to have done it so soon. Had Sherlock faked a death before Moriarty could push him into it for real? </p><p>‘<em> John’s blood is too’ </em>; the poem referred to him, his blood, presumably his death. But since Sherlock's presumed death, there's been nothing threatened from Moriarty. Even Moran is just rattling the bars of his cage. Sherlock wouldn’t have done this just to protect him. John isn’t that naïve or egotistical. Sherlock wouldn’t just fake his own death to keep John safe while Moriarty continued to spin his web. Sherlock would … Sherlock would surely continue to work on taking him down?  </p><p>Maybe, just maybe that is the answer. By faking his own death, Sherlock is buying more time to fight Moriarty. So, if Sherlock is still alive, where is he and what is he doing? And what is he trying to stop Moriarty from doing?  </p><p>John knows that this is going to take some work. Before he settles in to start, he takes the DNA report from his pocket and pushes a pin through it to hold it in place on the wall. Then he scribbles on a post-it note and puts it up alongside it: </p><p> </p><p><b> NOT DEAD </b> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Sixteen</p><p>Music for Chapter 16 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Gallows - Shelby Merry • Young Guns<br/>Bones of Ribbon - London Grammar • Truth Is a Beautiful Thing (Deluxe)<br/>Island Of Doom - Agnes Obel  • Island Of Doom</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. In the sun and in the snow.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sebastian grunts as he reaches down to rub the healing wound on his leg where the sutures he put in are starting to itch. Another day or so and they can probably be removed. But until then … He slams his head back against the pillow in frustration. </p><p>It's five o'clock in the morning and he hasn't been able to get an ounce of shut eye since two. He finally gives it up as a lost cause, and gets up to gets up to fix himself a coffee. The flat is weirdly empty and quiet. For not a very tall man, Jim takes up a lot of physical space. When he's not here, Sebastian feels unsettled, unable to relax. Not for the first time since Jim left him with his trousers around his ankles in the garage, Sebastian wonders just what the hell his game is, and why he is being kept out of things.  </p><p><em> We're supposed to be a team … </em>  </p><p>With nothing else to do at this ungodly hour, Sebastian flips up the lid of his laptop in the kitchen and opens the app to the surveillance cameras. Not surprising, there are no lights on in Mycroft Holmes’ kitchen or living room. The bedroom is dark, too. <em> Given what should be on his mind, how is the bugger managing to sleep at night?! </em>He switches to infrared and realises that the bed is empty. That makes more sense, Holmes must be burning the midnight oil somewhere else tonight. A quick rewind of the video shows no arrival, so the man must still be at the Diogenes Club.  </p><p>Sebastian switches to the Baker Street cameras. Lights are off there, too, but he can see the living room wall well enough in the street lamp's illumination. He stares at the post-it note that has been added since his last visit. Zooming in, he can make out the hand writing:   </p><p> </p><p><b> NOT DEAD </b> </p><p> </p><p>Not a question—a statement!? What the hell has been going on in the last twenty-four hours while Sebastian has been entertained by Jim’s game with Mycroft Holmes? What has Watson found that leads him to believe that?   </p><p><em> And more importantly, does Jim know? ... </em>  </p><p>Sebastian zooms in on the piece of paper pinned next to it. The camera is good, good enough to read handwriting on a post-it note from four meters, but the paper has been pinned haphazardly so only a couple of lines at the bottom of the page are showing. It's got a bunch of numbers on it and percentage signs, plus handwriting that is hard to make out, given it's in pencil.  </p><p>Sebastian tries to read the scrawl, deciphering—<em>Erythropoietin </em>. What the hell is that? He opens a search engine tab and starts to type it in, when a news alert pops up in the lower left-hand corner of his laptop screen. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> BA PLANE CRASH in MAINE: LATEST UPDATE.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sebastian clicks on it and the CNN News page comes up, the headline blaring:  </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>BREAKING NEWS: Flight BA214 took off from Boston's Logan Airport at 11.23pm. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>E</em>
  <em>xactly on the stroke of midnight, with no prior warning, it plunged from the sky totally without power.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>the last seconds of this catastrophic descent from 38,000 feet was captured live on video. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Viewers are advised that the video contains scenes that are disturbing.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sebastian watches as a phone's camera captures the moment the lights go out. The cabin lights had been dimmed so passengers could sleep, so it's only really noticeable because the screens on the back of the seats go blank, and all the lights in the galley areas and those over seats where readers are suddenly plunged into darkness. The only light in the cabin comes from the emergency signs over the escape hatches and the floor strips. What is really noticeable is that the sound of the engines also stopped. Whoever is taking the video is heard saying, "What the f…" It's bleeped out on the video as the plane shudders, caught in what Sebastian assumes must be headwinds, with no control over the flaps. The nose of the plane suddenly goes down and the video jerks. Now there are screams, along with the clatter of a galley trolley hurtling down the aisle.  </p><p>There is no rapid depressurisation, no oxygen masks dropping from the ceiling, just three minutes of sheer terror while cabin crew shout over the screams, directing passengers to assume the brace position. Then a deafening bang as the video goes dark.  </p><p>The website text has a live update that comes up.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Emergency services and air accident investigators are on scene at the crash site </em></p><p>
  <em>in a field ten miles northwest of Augusta, Maine where there are reports of some survivors. </em>
</p><p><em>We will update you as soon as we are able to do so</em>."  </p><p> </p><p><em>Fucking hell. </em> Three incidents in three days. Jim is <em> really </em> cranking up the pressure on Holmes! Taking down a commercial aircraft? The enormity of the crime and the havoc it will wreak across the globe appeals to Sebastian on a visceral level, leaving him almost giddy with delight. The only blot on his horizon is that he wants to be in on the action.  </p><p>Sebastian's special ops training is enough to tell him that what he's just seen is no ordinary crash. Even if both engines on the 737 had died, the pilots would still have had control of the plane's hydraulics, enough to get them into a controlled glide down. There are redundancies galore in modern planes. For the whole shebang to fail is just … not something that any aircraft designer or pilot training had ever considered possible.  </p><p><em> Software. </em> Jim's managed to bugger everything on this fly-by-wire beauty so that the plane did an uncontrolled crash landing. Sebastian's knowing smile starts to widen. </p><p>Four hours and three cups of coffee later, he has devoured just about every news bulletin on the crash, from outlets on both sides of the Atlantic. Expert after expert has explained to the reporters that this was something that shouldn't be possible. Planes have too many redundant systems for this to be possible. A software glitch in one place couldn't do it. And speculation is rife about not just <em> what </em> had happened, but <em> who </em> might be behind it. Sebastian might not be able to work out the how, but he sure knows the who.  </p><p><em> Speak of the devil. </em>Sebastian's smile widens into a grin as he hears the front door open and a set of keys being slung with a clatter into the glass bowl on the hall consul table.  </p><p>"Hey boss. In here."  </p><p>Sebastian is annoyed at how pleased he sounds that Jim is back; it strikes him momentarily that he might be just as pathetic as Watson. But he pushes the thought out of his head as soon Jim comes around the corner into the kitchen wearing a sly grin—and a slim-cut, emerald green two-piece suit—jacket and skirt, complete with stockings and heels. The blond wig cut in a fetching bob is complemented by a slash of red lipstick and make-up that wouldn't look out of place on a fashion model.  </p><p>"Thought you'd still be tucked up in bed, Tiger." </p><p>Sebastian is stunned. Not in his wildest dreams has he ever considered that Jim's tastes would run to cross-dressing. His mouth must be gaping, because Jim is laughing, delighted. "Like it?" He does a twirl. "Well, since our next door neighbour is the Giles Foreman Acting School, I thought it might give me a way in this morning without tripping over MI5's surveillance blokes. Do you think the colour suits me?" He bats his eyelashes provocatively.  </p><p>Sebastian clears his throat. "Um … not really my thing."   </p><p>"Spoilsport."  </p><p>Jim starts stripping off, starting with the wig and leaving the clothes in a heap on the kitchen floor. "Better now?" He does another twirl, this time completely naked.  </p><p>Until Jim gets the make-up off, Sebastian is not going to be able to look comfortably at his boss. "Yes … but, um before we get down to ... other stuff, there is the small—or rather not so small—matter of the airplane you just downed. Fucking hell, Jim. You are a genius!”  </p><p>"Of course, I am,” Jim dismisses with a flick of his wrist, stalking around the back of the kitchen chair to reach over Sebastian's shoulder and flick the lid of the laptop shut, “And now … genius deserves a reward.”  </p><p>But Sebastian <em> wants </em> to know, <em> needs </em> to be in on the game and chooses to ignore the directive, instead hooking a thumb back at the (now closed) laptop screen. "Sheer poetry. How on Earth did you do it?"  </p><p>"That's for me to know, and you to find out," Jim smiles sweetly, all teeth. Sebastian finds himself slightly repelled by the fact that the lips he normally relishes are still bright scarlet. He tries again. "Maybe, if you'd let me in on things, I could be there to enjoy it in real time rather than having to catch the re-run." He hears the edge of complaint in his tone, and knows that Jim will have heard it, too. "We should be working together, you and I."  </p><p>"I don't need your help on this one, sniper. No bullets required.”   </p><p>Sebastian frowns in response.  </p><p>“Shower … <em> NOW!"  </em>  </p><p>It's shouted in the manner of a sergeant major—an order that cannot be denied. Sebastian curls his lip sardonically. "Yes, sir."  </p><p> </p><p>oOoOoOo  </p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes later, Jim is standing under the waterfall of the chrome shower head at one end of the huge glassed-in shower, the whole bathroom filling with steam from the spray. The make-up is now on a wash cloth on the floor of the shower. At the other end of the shower Sebastian is eyeing Jim with his more usual appreciation. </p><p>“Do you know how easy it is? How <em> ridiculously </em> easy,” Jim sighs to the ceiling, eyes closed as he tugs at himself leisurely, cock half hard but becoming steadily more interested.  </p><p>Sebastian is pretty sure he's not expected to answer, so he doesn’t respond, just enjoys the show.  </p><p>“All those pathetic little lives, snuffed out just like <em> that</em>,” Jim strokes himself a little harder on the inflection and then slows again down to purr and smile. “And Mycroft Holmes, with all that blood on his hands.”  </p><p>Jim’s hand stills as he opens his eyes and drops his chin to catch Sebastian watching him. His eyes instantly narrow in annoyance. “What are you waiting for Tiger? On your knees.”  </p><p>Sebastian moves to obey, easing himself down carefully to the shower floor so as not to aggravate the stitches.   </p><p>Jim watches his controlled movements and huffs merrily, one eyebrow raised. “How's the leg then?”  </p><p>“Fine,” Sebastian mutters before leaning forward and gently licking the tip of Jim's near fully erect cock into his mouth. What he would like is to steady himself by wrapping his hands around the taut globes of Jim's gorgeous arse but Sebastian knows that Jim doesn’t want him to touch unless he gives permission. He very rarely does. Instead, Sebastian balances carefully on his knees, putting some of his weight back on his toes as he swirls his tongue around the plumping head, under the retracting foreskin.  </p><p>“What is it about you, Sebbie?” Jim muses, running a hand over Sebastian's hair gently before grabbing a handful and yanking his head back viciously, quite at odds with the soft words. “I can have anyone, anyone at all, but it always comes back to you. Are you my devoted pet? Do you love me as much as Watson pines for his poooor lost master?"  </p><p>His eyes have a look of possessiveness before he wipes his expression clean and forces Sebastian’s head back down again, impaling his mouth with Jim's now very hard cock.  </p><p>Sebastian’s eyes water as he tries desperately not to gag around the length that is now pressing painfully into the back of his throat as Jim continues to hold his head in place with a vice-like grip on his hair. It doesn't help that the monsoon shower is dousing them both in a heavy stream of water. For a split second, Sebastian thinks of being waterboarded, and it makes him jerk his head back, pulling away from Jim fucking his throat. He gags, coughs and tries to get his breathing back under control.  </p><p>Jim laughs. "Come up for air, Tiger; it wouldn't do for my little kitty to drown."  </p><p>Embarrassed, Sebastian struggles to get his cough under control.  </p><p>"Kiss my ass. You know you want to." Jim turns his back on him, repositioning his legs to straddle Sebastian's knees, thrusting his arse backwards.  </p><p>Obligingly, Sebastian starts tonguing Jim's cleft, snaking his hands around Jim's hips to take hold of the man's cock. He starts slow, drawing one hand up the shaft, using the other to make a fist into which Jim can thrust, timing it all in synch with the penetration of his tongue probing into Jim's hole. Water isn't the best lubricant, so Jim uses a sponge with soap to make himself slicker. </p><p>Jim sniggers. "Your fist… I am imagining it to be Mycroft Holmes; up yours, posh git." He gives a savage thrust into Sebastian's fist, enough to wreck the careful balance of their interactions. Seb misses the timing for a split second, irritated that Jim is thinking of someone else rather than him. <em> Always the bloody Holmes brothers. </em>  </p><p>The stutter of coordination between his tongue and hands is noticed. Jim growls, "Concentrate, Tiger." There is warning in that order, and it goes straight to Sebastian's cock, making it bob up, seeking friction of its own. When Jim allows him to take a less passive role, when the boss isn't inflicting pain as a way of stimulating his own sexual appetite, it somehow excites Sebastian even more. <em> I am allowed to do this to HIM. </em> It's intoxicating. </p><p>Sebastian starts to move his left hand down Jim's cock, in a firm circle around his balls, dragging his pinky finger across Jim's perineum before returning up the shaft. He can feel Jim's balls tighten and lift, his thrusting becoming more aggressive, forcing Sebastian into keeping pace with his rising desire. The strain on his thighs is beginning to pull at the still healing sutures, adding a frisson of pain to his sexual frustration. </p><p>Sebastian's own erection is almost painfully demanding attention, but he's trying his best to ignore it. When Jim's timing starts to falter, Sebastian grips his fist tighter and pushes his tongue deeper in. Three strokes later, Jim's orgasm explodes. Spurting come across the shower, Jim shouts, "Take that!"  </p><p>Sebastian realises that whatever has been going on in Jim's head while he'd been working on him, the fantasy doesn't involve him, but rather Mycroft Holmes. His own erection flags, and droops with disappointment as Jim steps away from him back into the flow of water to rinse off the last of the soap. </p><p>A moment later, Jim leaves the shower without a backward glance. Sebastian's legs are shaky as he stands and washes himself.  </p><p> </p><p>oOoOoOoOo </p><p> </p><p>“So, what have <em> you </em> been up to in my absence? Gone on the prowl anywhere?” Jim pauses toweling dry his hair to fix Sebastian with a look.  </p><p>Sebastian stills. This is it. This is the point where he could offer up to Jim the information on the camera he planted in Baker Street and the note seeming to indicate that perhaps the great detective isn’t quite so dead after all. He probably should, but he is still somewhat miffed about Jim’s refusal to trust him with whatever he is currently working on.  </p><p>Instead he mutters, “Nothing,” knowing he sounds somewhat defensive. He doesn't care, still feeling a bit bruised about how Jim is treating him. “You shut me out remember?”  </p><p>“For you own good, Tiger, and for mine …” Jim gives him a curious look and Sebastian shivers at the thought that Jim is going to see the lie. But then Jim is back to crowing over his victory over Mycroft Holmes, Sebastian relegated once again to secondary importance. Sebastian silently releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding.  </p><p>"Daddy knows best," Jim purrs, tossing the towel aside and padding across the plush slate gray carpet to slip onto the bed, stretching languorously. "The idjits thought they could fool me. Someone worked out that I was targeting that particular flight. When I find out who, I'm going to skin him alive."  He picks up a letter opener from the bedside table and uses it to summon Sebastian to lie beside him.   </p><p>As soon as Sebastian does so, moving his leg a bit gingerly, Jim drags the letter opener up his Sebastian’s left side, pushing just hard enough to make a red line over his ribs, but not quite hard enough to break the skin.  </p><p>"They swapped a plane and gave it the same traffic control signature, thinking that would fool me. Poor fool them. Poor fool Mycroft Holmes"  </p><p>Sebastian is smirking, despite the awkward pain on his ribs. If he can keep Jim talking and get more information, the wound is worth it. "How'd you work it out?"  </p><p>"Twitter is so useful. They might have swapped the plane, but they still had a plane-load of pissed-off passengers to deal with. Found me a whiner who was moaning on twitter about how the flight had been delayed, and the flight number of the replacement aircraft that had been provided to get them to Heathrow. It was easy-peasy to entice him to give me a travelogue, complete with images, courtesy of the on-board internet service."  </p><p>"Ah, the video!?"  </p><p>"Couldn't have asked for a better camera man. All the way down." Jim makes a plane out of his left hand and spirals it down to mimic the disaster; "Zoooooom, all those screams. Then a big crash. It was de-lish-ous."  </p><p>Sebastian is grinning at the fact that Jim's cock is waking back up. When the boss is in this kind of mood, his refractory period is startlingly short.  </p><p>"Let's have some fun." As Jim says this, he flips Sebastian over onto his stomach. "Time to give my Tiger a seeing to." </p><p>Sebastian is grinning into the pillow, pleased that Jim is finally paying him some attention. He lifts his head enough to say "Survivors, too—they'll keep the story on the front pages for days. He's going to have to face the press now; can't hide something this big."  </p><p>"Black box boogie …" Jim is running the letter opener blade over Sebastian's arse now. "I want to see him <em>dance</em><em>.</em>" The blade dips into the crack between his butt cheeks, stopping the point on edge of his anus. The pain is exquisite, as is his fear that the man might drive the point deep inside him. He has to battle with every instinct of self-preservation that he has to keep himself still. </p><p>Jim flips the letter opener over, and pushes the brass bulb roughly into Seb, who almost sobs with relief that it is the rounded end and not the blade. He manages to blurt out, "Holmes didn't come home last night."  </p><p>Jim laughs. "I should hope not. That lump of lard needs to work for a living for once. I want him to sweat it out. He tried his damned best to stop me tonight and failed utterly. How embarrassing."  </p><p>"Is that the plot then? You've driven the younger brother to kill himself. Now it's Holmes' turn? Get him to top himself, rather than face the disgrace of failure?"  </p><p>"Oh, Tiger, you have such a little brain." The letter opener's bulbous end is pushed harder into his anus, making him jerk at the burn. Moriarty is crooning, "No, no, no. If that's all I wanted, I could have done that aaaages ago. No. I have bigger plans for that one. He's going to have to deal with the fact that people are going to blame him personally for <em> ME!"  </em>   </p><p>"Escalating? Christ, what's worse than murdering a whole planeload?"  </p><p>"You 'aint seen nothing yet."  </p><p>The brass end is savagely pulled out, making Sebastian flinch and cry out. His face is pushed into the pillow. With no lube, no warning, Jim plunges his cock straight in, making Sebastian shout into the pillow.  </p><p>With Jim here, claiming him, sharing at least some of his triumph with him, Sebastian feels like he is finally getting back into the game.  </p><p><em> Bring it on</em>, he grins into the pillow.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Seventeen</p><p>Music for Chapter 17 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Magpie - The Unthanks • Mount the Air<br/>Familiar - Agnes Obel • Citizen of Glass<br/>Pain and Pleasure - M()re, Woodju • Five Years</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. And many other beasts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello dear readers, and welcome to chapter 18. Thank you so much for joining us on this journey, it has been quite a ride so far!</p>
<p>Just a note to say that we will be slowing our posting schedulde down to once a week for the next little while as the challenges the world has been facing of late have also impacted our co-authoring endeavours. Do not fear though, the end is in sight and we are currently working on the last couple of chapters.</p>
<p>Take care and stay safe 😘</p>
<p>SP &amp; 7%</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Dreadful,” Mrs. Hudson titters to herself as she potters about the kitchen. “Just dreadful.”   </p>
<p>“Sorry, what?” John mumbles through his hand as he rubs the stubble on his jaw. Sitting slumped over at the kitchen table, he stares into his teacup, wishing it contained something stronger.   </p>
<p>Mrs. Hudson had come upstairs a few minutes earlier and upon spotting John already up and about, had attempted to place the latest of the mail addressed to Sherlock on the mantelpiece as discreetly as possible.   </p>
<p>The mail. Sherlock's mail. It just kept coming. Despite the news coverage, despite the coroner’s verdict. It kept coming. In smaller amounts than before but still coming from people refusing to believe the news, desperate for help. John had resolutely ignored the ever-growing pile.    </p>
<p><em> But maybe he didn't need to ignore it anymore …  </em>   </p>
<p>Before he can continue the line of “not dead?" thinking that had occupied his mind most of the previous night, Mrs. Hudson's voice interrupts again.  </p>
<p>“The news, John. The plane.”  </p>
<p>“Yes,” he agrees absently, casting his mind back to the night before last. “A near miss, lucky that.”  </p>
<p>“Near miss?” She screws her face up incredulously. “Over one hundred people dead and however many more injured? I really don't think that's what you call a near miss.”   </p>
<p>It's at this point that he realises he has absolutely no idea what she is talking about. Mrs. Hudson takes pity at the look of confusion on his face and slides the newspaper across the table in front of him. First page, face up, headline blaring:   </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> BRITISH AIRWAYS CRASH KILLS 103 </em> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He flips the paper open to the full-page article taking up the entirety of the front page. <em> Good God</em>, he thinks as he starts to read. <em> It just fell out of the sky. How is that even possible? </em>He gets up and goes into the living room, opening up his laptop and clicking on the BBC news website. </p>
<p>Apparently, Mrs. Hudson has continued talking and he registers snippets of her running commentary as he reads. "… after all that horrible business with those Boeing planes last year … too afraid to fly … my trip to Spain, all booked … sister and I … don't want to fly with this sort of thing happening ... refund, yes, that's …"  </p>
<p>His thoughts trail off again. <em> Three events involving aircraft in the last three days ... </em>  </p>
<p>“Sherlock would have been able to figure out who was behind it.” The words are out of her mouth before she realises. Her hand creeps up to her lips as if to shove the words back in and she instantly shoots John an apologetic glance.   </p>
<p>“Yes,” he agrees, meeting her gaze. It’s the truth, after all. “He would.”  </p>
<p>Mrs. Hudson winces but looks slightly but not totally mollified at his easy agreement and she makes some excuse about needing to contact her travel agent. Before she leaves, she glances back at the mantelpiece. "I know it's hard, John, but you really need to sort out that post. There might be bills in there."  </p>
<p>John nods and goes to the stack of Sherlock’s post on the mantlepiece to look through it. As he reaches for the letter on top, he accidentally nudges the over-stacked pile and it starts to slide sideways, spilling the contents along the mantelpiece, catching the skull and sending it crashing to the stone floor in front of the hearth, where is smashes into pieces.  </p>
<p>The noise brings Mrs. Hudson back into the room; surveying the scene her eyes widen in horror. John is shocked, and then devastated—‘<em>friend of mine. Well, I say ‘friend’—</em>his clumsiness has reduced Sherlock's prized possession to a series of bone fragments scattered across the living room carpet.  </p>
<p>Just as Mrs. Hudson moves forward, no doubt to start cleaning up the mess, John spots something … black, amongst the pieces ...  </p>
<p>"Stop," he commands, hand raised to halt her progress.  </p>
<p>Mrs. Hudson freezes.  </p>
<p>John moves closer. Small. Plastic. Black. Face down on the living room carpet. He knows exactly what it is.  </p>
<p>Mrs. Hudson follows his gaze and then looks back up at him waiting for his instruction.  </p>
<p>"Mrs. Hudson, you need to go <em>now</em>," he directs.  </p>
<p>She may not understand why, but dutifully she nods and leaves the flat.  </p>
<p>John goes to the kitchen to fetch his mug, half full of now lukewarm tea, placing it down on the floor amongst the shards of bone. Sliding his thumb between the lens of the camera and the carpet to keep the feed blocked off, he places it into the cup and it sinks to the bottom. He retreats to Sherlock's chair to think.  </p>
<p>His gaze moves between the mug on the floor and the skull bone fragments. <em> A bug in the flat. Three aircraft incidents. Sherlock </em> <em> possibly </em> <em> alive. Are they all connected? How are they all connected? </em>  </p>
<p>He gets up to collect the newspaper from the kitchen and reads through it, checking it against the news sites. It’s the early morning edition so the information that was available at the time was quite limited, but once he goes online the current suggestion is sabotage.  </p>
<p>There's even a video of the final moments of the flight, taken by someone inside the doomed plane. Somehow, a recording of the crashing plane's cockpit exchanges with Air Traffic Control have been put on the British Airways Facebook page.  </p>
<p>He doesn't need Sherlock to tell him that the video and the audio have been published without the approval of the air accident investigators. Someone is ramping the whole thing up to maximum volume.  </p>
<p>The plane isn't the only thing that's crashed. The share price of IAG, the owners of British Airways, is in free fall and already politicians are being quoted, saying that the spate of incidents is raising serious questions about air safety. But there's one article that attracts his attention, a report that someone claiming to have been the hijacker had sent a note, signing it off with the initial 'M' …   </p>
<p>Jaw set, nostrils widened. John takes a deep breath. For the first time since Sherlock’s death, he knows what to do and he knows where to go. And this time he's taking his gun.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>oOoOoOo  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>John walks straight in through the front door, past the concierge. The man moves to intercept him but John just holds up his index finger and gives the man his ‘don't you dare try and stop me’ look. Wisely, the concierge doesn't.  </p>
<p>Upon John's entry to the reading room, Mycroft looks up from his tea and frowns, before getting up. He raises a hand to stop John, and then gestures for him to follow, heading for the stranger's room where conversation is possible. John's been here before; he knows the drill. Mycroft drops down in one of the leather wing chairs, pronouncing in a bored tone, “Armed, Doctor Watson? Surely I don't pose that much of a threat?”  </p>
<p>John pointedly refuses to sit in the chair opposite. He slaps down the newspaper on the low table in front of Mycroft. "Tell me this isn't Moriarty."  </p>
<p>Mycroft doesn't even look at the paper; he keeps his eyes on John and raises one supercilious eyebrow. "It isn't Moriarty?" he offers.  </p>
<p>John retrieves the now very dead, dried off security camera from his pocket, and drops it carefully in the middle of the newspaper. "And tell me this isn't you."  </p>
<p>“I don't know what that is or where you might have found it, John.”  </p>
<p>"The flat. It wasn't there the last time Sherlock swept the room for bugs. He was a bit paranoid about your spying and used to do it once a fortnight."  </p>
<p>There is something in Mycroft's dead-eyed expression that reminds him of a shark, and it annoys the hell out of John. “And this?” He flings the lab report down on top of the camera. “I suppose you don’t know anything about this either?”  </p>
<p>Mycroft picks it up, flicks to the back page and nods. "I've seen it. Irrelevant. The balance of probabilities, Doctor; there is always a margin of error. Seven percent in this case."  </p>
<p>"Did you suppress this report? Stop it from reaching the Coroner at the inquest?"  </p>
<p>"Why would I do that?" The tone is mildly bored, something that reminds John of Sherlock when he was being evasive.   </p>
<p>Pointing at the camera, John snarls, "Perhaps Sebastian Moran might be able to provide some insight about this bug; he's been an agent of yours in the field more recently. Care to speculate about how and why he might have gotten into the flat? Or perhaps you could just whistle him up and have a little chat about it?"  </p>
<p>“Doctor Watson, I would suggest –"  </p>
<p>“You can shove your suggestions up your arse, Mycroft.”  </p>
<p>Teeth clenched, the fingers of his left hand curl into a fist, and John fights the overwhelming urge to grab the man by his perfectly pressed regent collar and haul him to his feet.  </p>
<p>At the same time as he takes a breath to calm himself, two suited government types enter the room. John's first thought—that they are bodyguards—is quickly dispelled when one of the men says to Mycroft, "Sir, you need to come with me now. There is an urgent meeting at the Cabinet Office where your presence is required."  </p>
<p>John takes a step back, as Mycroft frowns at the man's words, sternly asking, "Why not tell me this in a call?"  </p>
<p>"The Permanent Secretary says it is not an invitation, but rather a summons and we are here to see that you comply."  </p>
<p>“You know what?” John huffs a mirthless laugh. “I think you have bigger problems than me. I’ll take care of this myself.” He retrieves the paper, the camera, and the lab report and leaves Mycroft to his fate.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>oOoOoOo </p>
<p>  </p>
<p><em> Sherlock. Sherlock would know what to do. </em>  </p>
<p>That thought accompanies John all the way home, his frustration boiling up and threatening to derail him. Mycroft is in the middle of his own shitstorm, probably of his own making, and John can't be bothered to give a fuck.   </p>
<p>Back at the flat, he conducts a thorough search, every nook and cranny. He's not going to be caught out again. If someone—anyone—is spying on him, John's not going to tolerate it.   </p>
<p>No further devices come to light. <em> Doesn't mean there isn't one</em>, the baritone voice in his head reminds him. John is going to have to act accordingly, assume that he is being watched. He starts to open his laptop and then stares at it. Maybe he should keep his thoughts offline for a while.   </p>
<p>Grabbing a pad, he scrawls names—Mycroft, Moriarty, Moran—and then tentatively, he adds <em>Sherlock?</em> If Sherlock is somehow playing at being dead, would he want to keep an eye on John? It's possible<em>. </em>Hell, it's <em>probable</em>, if he really is alive. </p>
<p>When John realises that his frustration is making him pace around the living room like Sherlock used to, he decides he needs some fresh air and some more information.  </p>
<p>He stops off first at Waterloo, but there is no sign of the homeless girl under the bridge, making him annoyed. She must have taken his fifty quid and done nothing more than laugh at him. John spends almost an hour scouring the tunnels, checking the underpasses. After he clatters down the first tunnel, he enters the second and slows down long enough to read the poetry on the wall: </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Soon, soon I will climb </em> </p>
<p><em> From this blackened earth </em> </p>
<p><em> Into the diffident light </em> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Here, right here. This is where he had his altercation. He reaches under his jacket to reposition his gun, tucked into his trouser waistband. If he meets Moran again, this time he'll be ready.   </p>
<p>No sign of being followed this time though; nothing. And not a peep from the Homeless Network, who seem to be making themselves very scarce. Sherlock had always known their limitations; motivated by self-interest and a willingness to do a lot of things in exchange for money, so John had hoped that the offer of a generous bounty for information about Sherlock's movements on the last day he was seen alive should have borne fruit by now.  </p>
<p>He gives up on Waterloo and makes his way eastwards. He's on the Jubilee line from Waterloo to London Bridge when something suddenly occurs to him. Maybe the silence from the network is because someone else is paying them well to keep quiet. Who would that be? <em> Moran or Moriarty? </em>  </p>
<p><em> Sherlock </em> <em> ? </em> If he'd used their services to set this whole damned thing up, then he'd be paying them to keep quiet about it. This is the slippery slope he'd warned himself against. If John dares to believe that Sherlock could be alive, then all sorts of other things start taking shape in his mind.  </p>
<p>The very idea ignites a flare of anger. If it's true—if he dares to believe that Sherlock is alive—then the whole thing is incredibly elaborate. It would have taken Sherlock time and considerable planning, all the while lying to John.   </p>
<p>The betrayal in that thought fuels John's rapid strides as he walks to the Old Operating Theatre from London Bridge station. Anger stops him from going up the tower again. What's the point of returning to the scene of the crime, if all he's going to see is what Sherlock had wanted him to see? Anyway, it's pointless, as his last trip up there had proven. The evidence has been cleaned up; it's as if it had never happened.  </p>
<p>St. Thomas Street is busy in the late afternoon sun, but he loiters on the pavement because he is not sure about what to do next. Traffic is a solid stream and pedestrians are all in a hurry to get somewhere; they just walk around him where he stands, staring across the street at the Old Operating Theatre. The Shard is casting a shadow that makes the wind chill feel that much colder.  </p>
<p>John knows he has to decide, one way or the other. The possibility that Sherlock could actually be alive and have perpetrated a plot of lies is agonisingly painful, but the alternative—that he is dead—is even worse. He nods to himself and sets his jaw. <em> Alive. </em> </p>
<p>John pops the collar on the back of his jacket to keep the wind off as he tries to imagine how Sherlock could have survived, and if he had, where he would have gone. He opens his phone to Google Maps and zooms in on the area. What is it that he is not seeing? John ignores the baritone voice in his head that snarks about the difference between seeing and observing. </p>
<p>The coroner had gone to great lengths to show that there'd been no hospital admissions on the night in question. But that doesn't mean something else couldn’t have been rigged to deal with an unconscious patient suffering from traumatic blood loss.   </p>
<p>An ambulance would have showed up on the traffic cameras. So, how would an unconscious, nearly dead body have been moved? How could Sherlock have been brought down those narrow, treacherous spiral stairs? What was it that Sherlock always said, "Eliminate the impossible; whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."  </p>
<p>The answer comes to mind, and John curses himself for not thinking about it before now. In his army days, some wounded soldiers had turned up in his OR carried in on evacuation mattresses rather than a trolley or gurney. Hell, they even had an evacmatt on the wall of the theatre, to be used in case the place was attacked and the patient had to be moved in a hurry to a place of safety.   </p>
<p>Strapped in and immobilised in one of those things, a patient could be man-handled around the sharp bends of the spiral stone staircase by two people, one using the straps at the top and the other holding the bottom to keep it stable.   </p>
<p>But, where would they go, once they got down? He looks at the map, and then back down the street at the cameras recording the traffic. If a van stopped to collect someone on one of those evac mattresses, it would have been shown on the footage.   </p>
<p>Standing there on St Thomas Street, John is aware that the pedestrian entrance to the Guys Hospital complex is directly across the street from the Old Operating Theatre museum. Guy's doesn't have an A&amp;E the foundation trust had moved it to St Thomas' Hospital years ago. However, it is remarkably convenient, if one was suffering from significant blood loss. Maybe …   </p>
<p>An unconscious person could have been carried straight across the street. Between the cars parked on either side of the road, the open space is only about four meters. It could be timed; two taller vehicles—say a van and an SUV—on either side of a narrow gap would have shielded anything going across from the cameras. It was a dark night after all.  </p>
<p>But, if they had taken an injured man suffering from life-threatening blood loss into a hospital without an A&amp;E, surely he'd be moved on ...</p>
<p>The penny drops.   </p>
<p><em> "OH!" </em> With no conscious thought of uttering that word, John suddenly realises that Sherlock could have been admitted there under a false name and no one, absolutely no one, would have thought to check that. Police procedures are so damned <em> literal </em>. They had relied on there being a 911 call to the Control Room, the dispatch of an ambulance, a normal admission through an emergency department—none of which had happened that night.  </p>
<p>A false name, not an actual admission but something that looked like a <em> transfer </em>… all planned in advance and no one the wiser? If Sherlock is behind this, then this is just the sort of thing he'd come up with, John realises.   </p>
<p>He needs a way to check what happened at Guy's on the night in question. Mike Stamford works at Bart's across the river. Mary, the A&amp;E consultant that Mike had recommended wouldn't be working here, because there's no Emergency department. He's not got any old friends working at Guy's now, so is going to have to do this the hard way.  </p>
<p>To do his research, John goes down the road to the Guy's Hospital Courtyard Café. It's got good coffee, and the way his mind is starting to flag after the initial adrenaline rush of discovery, the caffeine is going to be a needed boost. Using his phone to dig around on the Trust website, he finds the names of various senior house officers in different services at Guy's. He starts phoning, taking on the role of Doctor John Watson, a GP who is trying to track down what happened to an unnamed patient whom he had treated at the scene of an accident between a car and an NHS patient transfer vehicle just down the road, about to turn into the hospital to deliver the patient.   </p>
<p>"It was on the third of November, early hours, between midnight and three o'clock. He was cut up by flying glass, significant blood loss. I never did get his name. The ambulance was a write off, but the crew were unharmed, so they took him into Guy's. The St Thomas's A&amp;E can't track him down without a name, and for all they know, your people patched him up without needing to cart him halfway across London to an A&amp;E again. He could have gone straight onto the ward where he was being transferred. Can you check your records? Any white male patient, aged mid-thirties. Tall, with dark longish curly hair. Text me with any likely names."  </p>
<p>When they want to know why, he tells them that he's just been diagnosed with Hepatitis B, and needs to contact the guy urgently, to encourage him to get himself checked. "I don't want to be the bearer of bad news, but he deserves to know if he's the carrier."     </p>
<p>John is relying on the good will of medical professionals who will sympathise with his situation.  By almost five o'clock, he's done what he can. All he can do now is wait for people to get back to him.   </p>
<p>While he waits, his attention is caught by a conversation between two women, in their late thirties or early forties. He decides they look like office workers, who have come in for a quick drink before heading home.    </p>
<p>"Can you believe it? Why does this sort of shit have to happen just before I have to fly?"  </p>
<p>"Where to?"  </p>
<p>"Geneva, on Boxing Day—skiing trip."  </p>
<p>Her companion gives her a smile. "Well, if the news is anything to go by, this nutter is targeting transatlantic flights, so you shouldn't have anything to worry about."  </p>
<p>"Nope. Haven't you heard the latest? Four—count it, <em> FOUR </em>—air traffic systems went out at four o'clock." She sighs into her tea. "The French were third in line. First the Americans, then us, then France, before Italy. Whatever the hell it was, it lasted exactly forty minutes in each case, so hours in all. Enough to thoroughly freak out everyone, especially as the nutter announced it to the whole effiing world on Facebook, just as it was happening. Imagine if you were on a plane at the time and got that on your news feed?"    </p>
<p>John turns so he can hear them better, even as he starts swiping his phone to find the BBC News App. What comes up is shocking; the woman's description is accurate.   </p>
<p>A video is available; John presses play and pulls the phone closer to hear:   </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> "The latest orchestrated blackout of air traffic controls systems follow hard on the heels of American authorities reporting on the BA flight 214’s black box. The FAA's announcement was blunt; that crash happened because of a total fly-by-wire software failure. Boeing's share price has plummeted, yet again. This disaster follows on from the grounding of all 737Max flights. In today's trading a further 5% of the company's value was wiped out.” </em> </p>
<p><em> "The appearance on Facebook of a page purporting to be a message from the individual behind this attack on the world's air transport systems warns he has installed three lines of code that make every plane in the sky vulnerable. Experts say this is impossible, but all around the world, airlines that use fly-by-wire software—not just on the Boeing planes, but Airbus and other manufacturers' planes, too—are reported to have started inspections." </em> </p>
<p><em> "In America, the National Security Agency launched an immediate investigation into the origins of the Facebook page, but four minutes after it appeared, it disappeared without trace. It had been up long enough to go viral." </em> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Jesus Fucking Christ. </em> It's all happening so fast. No wonder Mycroft had been frog-marched to the Cabinet Office.   </p>
<p>A security expert is explaining how someone had copied the post and put it on twitter, and it lapped its way around the world.  As images of the Facebook page are superseded by a graphic—the letter M—the presenter continues, "No one knows who is behind this all-out assault. We only have a single initial. Four incidents within four days. A threat that's specific:  </p>
<p>The screen zooms into the text on the page:  </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> I am doing this on behalf of the planet. The airline industry is being held to ransom because it is killing the planet. Tell your politicians to pay up </em> <em> this time </em> <em> or pay the consequences. If you know what's good for you, you'll stop flying.  </em> <b>  </b> </p>
<p><b> <em> M </em> </b>  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The presenter's voice over continues. "Airlines all around the world have been reporting massive cancellations of seats booked for the Christmas break; British Airways would not confirm tonight an unsubstantiated rumor that up to 40% of the tickets booked on fights out of the UK over the next five days have been cancelled—all in the past two hours. The costs to airlines' bottom lines are incalculable."   </p>
<p>John stares at the screen in disbelief. M … M is for Moriarty. It's something that's been rumbling around in his head for the past four days. This is just that megalomaniac's style—cause chaos, confusion, all in the name of extortion and blackmail. Not that the creep needs the money. He's doing this for the sheer fun of fucking people over.   </p>
<p>What would Sherlock do? If he is alive, if he were here … John closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. No matter how pissed off he'd be with Sherlock for pretending to be dead, none of that would matter if he is still alive and able to get this bastard, once and for all.    </p>
<p>"If you're alive, Sherlock, for Christ's sake, let me help stop this bastard from whatever the hell he is doing.<em> Don't be dead</em>.”   </p>
<p>His phone pings, startling him. A glance shows an incoming email, which he opens to see that someone has posted a new comment on his latest blog story—the one he'd called the Geek Interpreter, where Sherlock had deduced that the bodies being found in tableaux scenes from comic books had been placed there by a frustrated fan artist, who'd failed to get a job as a digital animator on one of the latest Marvel films being made at Shepperton Studios.   </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> You are being overly sentimental about a logical deduction process. You really should stick to the facts.   </em> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Is it possible? …</em> John opens the blog administration page and replies to the comment:   </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Let's discuss this privately  </em> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson </em> </b> </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John inserts a link to his WhatsApp profile. He waits, and waits… And then his phone pings to show that the invitation to join the private group has been accepted. He starts typing immediately:   </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> If you were going to save someone who is bleeding to death without being admitted to a hospital how would you do it? </em> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson</em></b></span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He waits but the question goes unanswered. After ten minutes of waiting, John gives up, deletes his phone number from the website and pockets his phone. Maybe he's wrong; Sherlock could well be dead, and he's chasing phantoms. Or maybe Moran had posted that comment, calling himself <em> a concerned friend </em> as a way of messing with John's mind. It's time to go home and have a think about all this.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>oOoOoOo  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As soon as he pushes open the door at Baker Street, John senses something is wrong. Very wrong. Someone else is in the flat, and it’s not Mrs. Hudson.  </p>
<p>The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. <em>Shit</em>, he thinks, <em>where is</em> <em>Mrs. Hudson? </em>He quickly checks the coat hooks to his left and breathes a sigh of relief. Her coat’s not there. She’s gone out.  </p>
<p>Easing the gun from where it is tucked into his belt, he slips off his shoes and starts up the stairs. That’s the thing about knowing the sounds each step makes, it means he knows how to walk so they emit no sound, too. Before he gets to the top, he can see that the doors to the flat are slightly ajar—deliberately so, he reasons—to give the intruder warning of anyone approaching.  </p>
<p>He eases his way along the landing to the kitchen door and stops to listen. The soft scraping sound of one of the chairs being moved tells him that whomever it is, is currently in the kitchen, towards the window at the back. </p>
<p>To give himself a better angle for a shot, John stealthily creeps past the kitchen door, heading for the one into the living room. He knows that the hinge on this one won't squeak until it is more than halfway open. Squeezing through the gap, he listens.   </p>
<p>Grateful that he'd left the sliding glass doors open from the living room into the kitchen, John makes his way to the point where he can peer around the corner. The intruder is using the chair to reach for something above the refrigerator. He has a screwdriver in one hand, and a phone in the other. John steps into the centre of the open doorway, raises his gun to take aim at the back of the intruder's neck just as he pushes the safety off, the resultant click echoing in the kitchen.  </p>
<p>“I don’t think so,” John growls.  </p>
<p>Moran freezes.   </p>
<p>"Raise both of your hands and turn around. Slowly."  </p>
<p>As Moran complies, John watches the man's eyes narrow at the sight of him. But with both hands occupied, the former agent can't reach for his own gun, which John knows will be in an ankle holster.   </p>
<p>“Now, get off the chair—slowly." John has kept his distance but has a clear angle of fire. No way that Moran will take the risk of trying anything. He'll play the odds, hoping to get closer, waiting to take advantage of any slip in John's concentration.  </p>
<p>"Put the phone and screwdriver on the table, and take a seat.” John waves his right hand in the direction of the chair on the opposite side of the table. “You and I are going to have a little chat.”  </p>
<p>"Hands up!" he barks as soon as the two items are deposited, making Moran freeze for a moment, before complying. As the man slips into the chair, John finishes the order, "In front of you, palms down on the table."  </p>
<p>Without taking his eyes, or gun, off the man, John reaches beside him, pulling out a couple of cable ties lying on top of the router box in the little bookcase by the door.  He tosses them onto the kitchen table near Moran with his right hand.  </p>
<p>“Put one on; bind your wrists”  </p>
<p>“And what if I don’t?”  </p>
<p>“Then I will just shoot you in the head.”  </p>
<p>“You wouldn’t. You don’t have it in you.”  </p>
<p>“Trust me. I really do," John smiles dangerously. "I’ve had a tough six weeks; do you want to give me chance to defend myself in a courtroom, telling everyone about you? I'd be grateful for the chance.”   </p>
<p>Moran snarls but does what he’s told, slipping his hands into the loop and pulling it tight with his teeth.  </p>
<p>"Nice try.” John snorts, waving his right hand at the man's wrists. Moran has kept them pressed flat against each other, maintaining some wiggle room between them. "I wasn't born yesterday. Crossed, and pulled again," John commands.  </p>
<p>Moran glares at him but does what he’s told, crossing his wrists and pulling the loop tighter.  </p>
<p>“Now, what do we have here?” John moves further into the kitchen and picks up Moran's phone from the table. The screen is open to the surveillance feed on Baker Street. Two cameras active, one blank. “Look at that,” he turns the phone around to face Moran, “it’s us.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Eighteen</p>
<p>Music for Chapter 18 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>No Rest for the Wicked - Klergy • No Rest for the Wicked<br/>Nothing Is As It Seems - Hidden Citizens, Ruelle • Nothing Is As It Seems<br/>Bullet With Butterfly Wings - Tribe Society • Delirium Sona</p>
<p><a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/614250905802571776/few-escape-the-gallows-the-poetry-of-waterloo"><strong>Eurydice</strong></a>, the mural poem composed by Sue Hubbard to comfort travellers descending into one of Britain’s most dismal underworlds inscribed along the concrete tunnel connecting Waterloo station with the Imax cinema and the South Bank.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. There are no more sins to be sinned</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> John fucking Watson</em>, Sebastian mutters under his breath as he cools his heels in a holding cell, a guest of Her Majesty in the Marylebone High Street station. Sitting in the middle of the long bench at the back of the cement room, his eyes fixed on the cell door, Sebastian has all the time in the world to ruminate on how he comes to find himself in this situation. </p>
<p><em> Curiosity killed the cat, or in this case, a tiger</em>, sings the lilting Irish voice in his head, mocking him for being caught red-handed. </p>
<p>A breaking and entering charge, carrying an unlicensed, concealed weapon, and unlawful surveillance of a private individual—the Police Constable David Milner who had collected him from Baker Street and booked him into the system had been most amused at the fact that he'd been handed over by Watson "tied up prettier than a Christmas present."  His gun, phone and the three bugs had all been confiscated as evidence. </p>
<p>Sebastian had one phone call to make from the police station, and he'd decided against using it to contact Jim. He didn't want to admit to this blunder, or at least be spared the humiliation of being bailed by the man. His call went to the solicitor who Jim has on permanent retainer, for just this sort of work. </p>
<p>"Make sure you’re prepared," he'd told the solicitor, "Although I'm far from being a boy scout, there's no reason to help my enemies put us behind bars." </p>
<p>Aside from the inconvenience, the fact of the matter is that he doesn't particularly like the feeling of being in a cage; confined, contained.  And it's giving him too much time to relive the disaster that had ended up with him here. <em> He should have left well enough alone</em>. He had still two working bugs; whatever had possessed him to go investigate the failure of the third? Even as he poses the question to himself, he already knows the answer. </p>
<p><em> Boredom. </em> </p>
<p>Jim had buggered off again, just as soon as he had arrived. And that had left Sebastian alone, again, in the Soho flat, with the knowledge of the ‘NOT DEAD’ message on Watson's living room wall for company and an urge to find out what else was written on the paper pinned beside it. Without Jim around to keep him occupied, and him still keeping Sebastian in the dark about his big plan, what the hell else was he supposed to have done? </p>
<p><em> Time for a field trip</em>, he had grinned to himself as he had brought up the surveillance a pp on his laptop. The grin was wiped firmly off his face when he'd realised that the feed from the camera he had placed inside the skull on the mantle had gone dark. His eyes had gone to the image from the camera placed above the refrigerator and he had just been able to make out, in the bottom left hand corner, <em> debris</em>? on the carpet. </p>
<p><em> Shit! Shit! Shit! </em> </p>
<p>Rewinding the feed from the camera inside the skull to the last available image, he watched as Watson moved into the field of vision of the lens. A moment later the living room wall tilted sideways, blurred and then went dark. Sebastian had switched to the camera above the fridge and rewound it to watch the skull toppling off the mantelpiece to smash to smithereens. Before the old woman had been able to clear up the mess Watson plucked the camera from the remnants of the skull on the carpet, covered the lens with his thumb and then dropped it into a mug. </p>
<p><em> Of all his fucking luck! </em> </p>
<p>It was this—that Watson was interfering with his spying that made him make the decision to pay Baker Street a visit; surely it would only be a matter of time before Watson found at least one of the other two. Doing the job in broad daylight had not been ideal, but the flat had showed no signs of movement from its usual occupants and Sebastian had been playing the odds that Watson had set out to ascertain the owner of the device he had just discovered in the skull. The camera over the fridge had shown him putting his jacket on and disappearing through the door to the stairs. </p>
<p>And everything had been fine. The old woman had been out, Watson was no-where to be seen, or heard, until ... He had felt rather than heard the army doctor's presence behind him in the kitchen. Sneaky bastard, Sebastian conceded with some admiration as he turned and his gaze took in Watson’s feet—socks, no shoes.  </p>
<p><em>Had it been a trap?</em> Sebastian isn't sure Watson is bright enough. <em>B</em><em>esides </em>he huffs, <em>as if that matters. </em> </p>
<p>Still, it was damned embarrassing. Having called the police from Sebastian's phone (Watson was bright enough to know that he had to keep the phone active or the screen lock would activate), all Sebastian could do was watch as Watson had opened the app, spotting the remaining two cameras at work. When the police showed up, he directed them to the bug above the fridge, and the other one outside his bedroom. So, all three are now history, to be used in evidence. </p>
<p><em> Daddy's going to be angry. </em> </p>
<p>That lilting voice haunts him, almost as much as his leg still aches.  </p>
<p><em> Nope, not ideal.  </em> </p>
<p>Sebastian tries to push away thoughts about how Jim will punish him. Leaning up against the tiled wall of the holding cell, he focuses instead on Watson, adding fuel to the bonfire of his hatred of the man.  </p>
<p>Watson had been delighted at Sebastian's capture. "Red-handed," he had crowed to the copper who showed up to arrest him. "Red-faced, too; now how does it feel, Mister oh-so-superior Moran, to have a lowly former army doctor get the drop on someone like you? All that training and you still got caught."  </p>
<p><em> John Fucking Watson. </em> </p>
<p>The one thing a sniper knows is that it is a <em>long</em> game that he has to play. Sebastian had managed to salvage one victory out of this afternoon's debacle. While the paper next to the post-it note on the wall had been removed, Sebastian had managed to find something rather useful—Watson's scrawled notes on a pad on the coffee table that did more than suggest that Sherlock Holmes might still be alive. They are now sitting in the bag of his personal effects, along with his wallet and the watch that Jim had given him.   </p>
<p>He's paid a heavy price to get them and is glad that Watson had been so busy smirking about his victory to have noticed they were missing. Sebastian can't help but regret that taking the time to collect those notes had slowed his progress and was probably the reason he ended up getting caught. From his quick scan, he knows that maybe, just maybe, he can throw that little tidbit of information in Jim's direction, enough to distract him from taking any more vengeance out on him. The pain in his leg reminds him of how likely that is, but he can hope, can't he? </p>
<p>At least he doesn't have long to wait. Less than an hour after the call, at quarter past seven, the dodgy solicitor arrives. When he is bailed, Sebastian exits the station and a black car pulls up beside him. The solicitor nods to him, "Command performance; get in."  </p>
<p>For a moment, Sebastian wonders if this is Mycroft Holmes getting at him. Could the solicitor have been playing both sides?  </p>
<p>Seeing the hesitation, the solicitor opens the passenger door and points in. "Don't keep him waiting; you know how pissed off he's going to be." </p>
<p>That threat has Jim's fingerprints all over it, so Sebastian gets in, glaring at the guy as the car pulls away into traffic. Five minutes later, it pulls into an underground car park and Sebastian is transferred to the back of a motorbike. He's handed a helmet, and is startled to find that the visor is completely black. The bike driver is anonymous in his own helmet and gear. He says, "Think of it as both a disguise and a blind-fold. Hold on tight."  </p>
<p>Fifteen minutes later, the motorbike comes to a halt, and he's manhandled off the back and then walked across what his ears tell him must be another underground carpark. The sound of an elevator's ping of arrival and then he's shoved in by the bike driver. "You can take the helmet off when the doors close."  </p>
<p>The gilded, mirrored lift to wherever it's headed seems to take forever. When Sebastian finally exits the private lift and enters what appears to be a rather grand suite boardroom. </p>
<p>Immediately his eye is drawn to the bank of LED monitors encompassing entirety of one side of the marble conference table, with Jim’s form hunched over one in the middle. The room is brightly lit by more than a dozen crystal chandeliers, cutting down much of what can be seen outside the floor to ceiling class windows, but he can just make out the brutalist design of the Ministry of Justice building. A quick calculation puts his current location as the conference centre of St Ermin’s. </p>
<p>Jim doesn’t even turn from his laptop to look at him, before barking. </p>
<p>"Shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. Daddy's <em> busy."</em></p>
<p>Jim's clearly furious at Sebastian for getting caught and if the tightness in Jim's voice isn't enough of a dead giveaway, he then throws up one hand pointing a finger vaguely back over his shoulder in Sebastian's direction, snarling, "Laterz."  </p>
<p>Projected on the enormous television screen at the front of the room, a panel of CNN reporters sit behind a news desk discussing the events of four o’clock that day. Sebastian watches in awed fascination as the latest of Jim’s games is recounted; four systems going dark and a Facebook post to announce it to the world. </p>
<p>"Exactly forty minutes after it started, the systems woke up again," the breathless CNN reporter announces. "The Federal Aviation Administration and the National Security Agency are investigating as we speak. Nothing like this has ever happened in the history of aviation. The idea that the whole of the system—the automated network, the back-up systems, even the manual handling by radio communications—could be simultaneously hacked and shut down; well, experts are saying it couldn't be done. Mass cancellations of flights and forced landings everywhere across the country; thank God no plane has crashed this time."  </p>
<p>The news bulletin switches to a reporter at Heathrow. "First it was America, then it was Britain's turn. As soon as the forty minutes were up, then it moved to France, before ending with another forty minutes in Italy. Whoever the mystery man <em> M </em> is, he's terrifying the world. Questions are being asked; and every passenger onboard a plane or planning an air journey anywhere in the world needs urgent answers." </p>
<p>Jim claps his hands, applauding the news reporter. "Couldn't have said it better myself." </p>
<p>In the background, piped through the audio-visual system of the conference room, Sebastian can also hear the voice of what sound like an Air Traffic Controller.   </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> "AF zero one </em> <em> niner </em> <em> ; divert, divert! All British sector ATC systems are down. </em> <em> N</em><em>o data re your position and that of others in the stack are available, Abort landing. I repeat, abort landing. Revert to visual. We have lost all capacity. Make your way as best you can to </em> <em> AMS; have </em> <em> you </em> <em> sufficient fuel?" </em></p>
<p>A French accented voice replies, <em> "Insufficient fuel. We could make CDG." </em></p>
<p>"<em>No, AF zero one </em><em>niner</em><em>.</em> <em>All ATC in France is </em><em>next to go </em><em>down. Can you make OTS? Ostend </em><em>Brugge</em> <em>is </em><em>tak</em><em>ing</em><em> those who can't make Amsterdam</em>."</p>
<p>  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Don't you just love the sound of airplanes falling from the skies? So much panic; so much <em> fun</em>," Jim professes to the laptop screen in front of him. ""Let's get the world really excited, shall we?" Time to <em> share." </em> </p>
<p>Sebastian knows it’s a rhetorical question, and he's got his orders to stay silent. All he can do is sit quietly in the corner, at the back of the room, and play witness to the chaos being orchestrated by Jim. </p>
<p>Jim opens the recording app on the laptop and announces, "At the tone, the time was …four o'clock. And the skies fell; one after another. First the USA, then the UK, then France, then Italy. Forty minutes of total fucking chaos, and it's ALL M's fault." He takes the MP3 file, adds the recording of the ATC and starts typing an email addressed to the BBC, Washington Post and Le Monde news sites, then CNN and Sky.  </p>
<p>"Wonder which one will get it up first?" Jim sits back in the reclining chair, puts his feet up on the board room table, keeping his eyes on the television screen where there are five news sites up on tiles.  </p>
<p>Sebastian's worries about what is going to happen to him later are pushed aside as he realises the scale of what Jim has done. The news sites are going absolutely <em> bonkers </em> <em> , </em> each of them devouring the recording of the air traffic control systems going "down and out for the count," as one CNN reporter puts it. <em> "Who is this mysterious M? Who is holding the world to ransom?" </em> </p>
<p>"It’s a feeding frenzy! This is like throwing raw meat into a wolfpack," Jim sniggers. He gets up and starts pacing in front of the TV screen. As the commentators talk about the worst disaster in the history of air travel, Jim's grin widens.  </p>
<p>He does a victory lap around the board room table. "You can run, you can try to hide, Mycroft Holmes, but it won't get you anywhere. The powers that be are going to rip into you because this is ALL. <em> YOUR </em>. FAULT." </p>
<p>When Jim turns away from the television screen, his gaze falls onto Sebastian. The smile he's been wearing turns to a glare, and then a frown, which deepens as he comes to stand beside the chair. "What am I going to do with you, Tiger? Your discipline is appalling. Maybe instead of shedding your blood onto that rug, I needed to skin <em> you </em> alive. Turn <em> you </em> into a rug. Wonder if I could find a taxidermist willing to do that to your worthless hide?"  </p>
<p>Jim traces a finger around Sebastian's neck. "I'll get him to leave your head on. He'll have to take out the brain, of course, what little grey matter you might actually have up there. Given your recent behaviour, there can't be much that he'll have to remove." </p>
<p>Sebastian can't, <em>won't</em>, look Jim in the eyes, knowing that that this could end very badly for him. He decides it's time to play his own card. </p>
<p> "Before you decide to do something I'm going to regret…" </p>
<p>Jim's smile becomes predatory.  </p>
<p>"…the whole point of keeping an eye on Watson paid off tonight. I've got proof that Sherlock Holmes may still be alive." </p>
<p><em> "SAY THAT AGAIN!" </em> </p>
<p>Sebastian takes a breath, but before he can say anything, Jim leans forward and grabs his chin, lifting it so he can look straight into his eyes. "Say that again, and know that if you’re lying to me, I will ssssskin you." </p>
<p>Sebastian follows the order. "Sherlock Holmes may still be alive." </p>
<p>Jim releases his chin and is uncharacteristically silent, unnervingly still beside him, as Sebastian pulls the notepad out of his pocket and starts to list the various bits of information he has gleaned from Watson’s notes. The only sign that Jim is actually hearing what Sebastian is saying is the muscle in his jaw twitching. By the time Sebastian is finished, Jim is incandescent with rage. </p>
<p>"Get out" he snarls, snatching the notes from Sebastian’s hands. "Wrong day for you to die."  </p>
<p>Not needing a second invitation, Sebastian bolts from the room before Jim can change his mind. This time, the lift down stops at the ground floor, and he walks out into St Ermin's hotel lobby, surprised that Jim is willing to let him know his whereabouts.  </p>
<p><em> Still alive. </em>He's not entirely sure if that is a good sign or a bad sign.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Nineteen</p>
<p>Music for Chapter 19 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Broken Crown - Mumford &amp; Sons • Babel (Deluxe Version)<br/>Oh Lord - In This Moment • Ritual<br/>Dodged A Bullet - Greg Laswell • Everyone Thinks I Dodged A Bullet</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. And birds, skin, bone, and feather,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The quiet of the Diogenes Club is usually consoling to Mycroft, but not today. Alone with his thoughts, he cannot help but ruminate over all that has gone wrong. His tea has gone cold and there are two untouched Bourbon biscuits sitting on a side plate beside the Royal Doulton ‘Old Colony’ teacup. The blue floral ribbed rim pattern has borne silent witness to many a machination of government since it became ‘the’ china of the Diogenes club in 1959. Carefully preserved since the discontinuation of its production in 1988, Mycroft wonders whether he will be afforded the same respect after he's gone. </p>
<p><em> Doubtful. </em> </p>
<p>He has been sitting here, leant against the high back of the dark brown leather Chesterfield, for thirty-two and a half minutes. It's less than an hour since he left Whitehall and the scene of his latest evisceration at the hands of the Permanent Secretary, Sir Edgar Laithwaite—ostensibly on behalf of the Prime Minister, who he had been informed in no uncertain terms ‘was not in the mood to be dealing with the ‘mess’.’ Sir Edgar then had the audacity to question Mycroft’s commitment to Queen and Country. A man who had ridden the coattails of his father, the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster in the last government, trading on that name to worm his way into the office of Permanent Secretary with no talent save being able to recite all the verses of the Eton boating song, including verses two, three, four and five that had been forever relegated to the archives.  </p>
<p>Mycroft's righteous indignation at his treatment at the hands of such an unimpressive man is relatively short lived, however. While Sir Edgar is indeed a useless blight on the position of Permanent Secretary, he is correct that this is hardly Mycroft's finest hour. The fourth pip was the final straw, and Mycroft knows that if they knew the whole truth, he would have been immediately dismissed and quite likely arrested for aiding and abetting a criminal, if not for crimes against the state. </p>
<p>It won't be long, though. Mycroft knows that Moriarty has lit a fuse, and the line of gunpowder is heading in Mycroft's direction. Having made his case to the powers that be after the near-miss incident to pay the demanded ransom, Mycroft had to endure the ignominy of having to explain how the bitcoin disappeared into the ether as soon as it was sent. It is no wonder that Mycroft and his actions are now (quite rightly) under extreme scrutiny as the pressure on the government increases. If that scrutiny had been intense before, it has become absolutely forensic following the downed BA flight.  </p>
<p>No doubt suspicion had led to the beginning of investigations into Mycroft’s own financial situation—the unspoken accusation had been lurking in the shadows in the Cabinet Office Board Room A. Those suspicions would have multiplied ten-fold, amidst the chaos when Moriarty took four countries' air traffic systems out of commission. Mycroft would not put it past the Irishman to have tried to implicate him further, perhaps by creating a false financial trail? It wasn't paranoia that had driven Mycroft to close all his bank accounts and financial investments yesterday, seconds after the bitcoin had disappeared. It won't be enough, and he knows it.  </p>
<p>"Why <em> you? </em>" Lady Smallwood's slightly pinched expression had said it all. "Why would Moriarty care?" </p>
<p>"Divide and rule," was Mycroft's answer, snapped in some bitterness. "What better way for him to pile on the pressure than making us turn on one another?”  </p>
<p>Sir Edgar had been less than impressed. "No smoke without fire, Holmes. If he's targeting you in particular, there has to be a reason. A man who can hold the world's airlines to ransom, someone who can dip in and out of air traffic systems as if they weren't protected by the best cybersecurity in the world. Why would such a man give a damn about someone as insignificant as you?"  </p>
<p>That stings a bit, Mycroft has to admit. His star has fallen a long way in a very short time. The fall from grace, as steep as that crashing plane's final descent. </p>
<p>Once the investigation into his role gets underway, there will be no mercy shown. He has always known that this will expose him to scrutiny of his whole career—the sides he's taken, the choices he's made, who was to live and who to die. Better if Moriarty's casualties had been soldiers; at least they understood that sacrifices need to be made. Unfortunately, these latest victims weren’t soldiers, just ordinary passengers who lost their lives when BA flight 214 plunged nose first into a ploughed field in Maine. And despite Mycroft’s general lack of regard for the great unwashed, he is not impervious to the fact that these were people with mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and children, all who lost their lives because he hadn’t been able to stop Jim Moriarty. </p>
<p><em> Collateral damage. </em> It's not a good enough excuse <em> . </em>He can't be blasé about 103 dead and another 34 in critical condition. Those deaths will weigh heavily in the investigation that is almost certain to be launched within the next few days.  </p>
<p>The plan had been a good one—but not quite good enough. Sherlock had been able to pinpoint the targeted flight in enough time for it to be taken out of service and a replacement aircraft brought in. Mycroft had always admired (even if he rarely admitted it) how Sherlock could immerse himself in the tiny minutia of data, focusing ever more tightly on what the patterns in the data showed.  </p>
<p>Sherlock’s correct identification of the target, and Mycroft's replacement of it with a 'ghost flight' should have given Moriarty a target to shoot at that wouldn't cost lives. The alternate plane had been thoroughly swept. Each of the passengers and the crew thoroughly screened again, as well as their luggage, before boarding. Shame that neither he nor Sherlock had been able to predict how the Irishman would find out that the planes had been switched and shift his aim.  </p>
<p><em>'Not good enough',</em> Sir Edgar had barked at him. Lady Elizabeth Smallwood had been more diplomatic in her assessment of the situation but the end result was the same. Mycroft had failed.  </p>
<p>Uncle Rudy, who had recruited him into the service while he was still at Oxford, had explained it all those years ago. "Failures? Of course, my boy. There are always failures in this line of work. It is the <em> consequences </em> of those failures that need to be considered." </p>
<p>In this case, he knows that both Uncle Rudy and Sherlock are right. Moriarty's plot is designed to open up every decision Mycroft has ever made to scrutiny, and to cast him in the worst possible light. Anyone who has been in Mycroft's position will have been economical with the truth to various Prime Ministers and politicians. But the price for that will be paid when all the truths are exposed. Knives will come out, honed with malice and the edges laced with poison—revenge of the inferior mind is nasty, brutal and short.  </p>
<p>Moriarty's plot reeks of something more excruciating and prolonged. The most likely outcome will be an investigation, a public enquiry into how the British Intelligence Services had identified, cultivated and then failed to control a psychopath who then held the world to ransom. Mycroft will be vilified, hung out to dry. He will be cast in the role of a rogue operating on his own; Moran’s mentorship was his idea and never authorised by anyone. On both sides of the Atlantic, the intelligence services which had benefitted the most from Mycroft's services will close ranks against him. At best, he'll be seen as an aberration, at worst, a fool for being taken in by Moriarty.  </p>
<p>A sad end to an otherwise successful career. When he'd started, no one but he had seen the dangers of cyber intelligence, cybercrime and cyberwarfare in the hands of a single criminal. Back then, no one wanted to recruit the IT expertise needed unless it had a military edge or GCHQ relationship. IT was for back-room boys, geeks who were simply tools to be used in whatever geopolitical strategy was in favour at the time. Mycroft had been worried enough to be go looking for threats in other forms, and when he had found it in the young Moriarty, he'd done his best to try to channel it for better purposes.  </p>
<p><em> Tried and failed. </em>  </p>
<p>Mycroft knows he badly misjudged Moriarty's ability to seduce Moran and to play him onto his side of the chessboard. He'd also been wrong about Moran's loyalty; he'd thought a ‘sink’ estate boy would have been grateful to escape his miserable origins and take advantage of the mentorship. After all Mycroft had done for Moran, to lose him in this way was particularly galling.  </p>
<p>Sherlock is right, and he is an idiot for not realising it before now. It makes Mycroft appreciate his brother more. If he'd been able, years ago, to attract Sherlock into his sort of work, what a formidable team they would have made ... </p>
<p>That thought makes Mycroft realise that when (no longer if, but <em> when</em>) the time comes for him to come clean, he needs to have put in place whatever is necessary to ensure Sherlock’s survival. A new identity, moved somewhere—anywhere—to a place where Moriarty will never know that he hadn’t died in the first place.  </p>
<p>He knows though that he's not going to get anywhere by sitting at the Diogenes, licking his wounds. Mycroft gets up and starts texting for the car to meet him out front. Contingency planning means convincing Sherlock to cut his losses, abandon his efforts to outsmart Moriarty, and run for deep cover in a new identity. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>oOoOoOoOo </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock, seated in a chair by the fire, doesn't even bother to turn to look at him as he enters the room, and simply announces, “No.” </p>
<p>Of course Sherlock sees him, knows what he's thinking; he's always been able to read him. That was always the most frustrating thing. It had made it almost impossible for Mycroft to exert his big brother influence on a little brother whose mind was (almost) as sharp as his own. </p>
<p><em> I’m the clever one, Sherlock. </em>  </p>
<p>How many times had he resorted to this jibe to try to keep Sherlock's incandescent mind from self-combusting? With the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, his brother could have been anything he wanted to be. Mycroft always thought that it was that the boy simply lacked the discipline to stay the course—the discipline that had made Mycroft into an asset of the country, even if he operated in the shadows, the back corridors of power. Unlike politicians or ambitious civil servants, Mycroft has always seen himself as above all that—objective, logically calculating, able to make the difficult choices without fear or favour. But with the choices he had made in relation to Jim Moriarty, not as clever as he'd thought he was. </p>
<p>“There is simply no other choice,” Mycroft states as he walks across the indigo Persian rug—<em>blue</em>—<em>the colour of trust, responsibility, honesty and loyalty</em>—to stand in front of the hearth. He keeps his back to Sherlock as his eyes trace the path of the flames flickering before him. </p>
<p>“There’s always another choice. It’s just that ..." Sherlock pauses, perhaps reflecting on his own recent choices, "the other choice is not particularly palatable.” </p>
<p>“You said it yourself Sherlock, I did this. I caused this. I created him. It’s time I took responsibility. And you need to find safety. There is no reason for you to put yourself at risk for my failures.” </p>
<p>"You saw genius where there was genius. You saw potential where there was potential.” Sherlock is being uncharacteristically forgiving—a rare word of praise that surprises Mycroft for how grateful he is to hear it. He turns his head away from the fire to look back at Sherlock, searching for a trace of irony or scorn, but finding none.  </p>
<p>Sherlock sniffs. "This is not the time for self-indulgence or self-pity. Now we need to find another solution to the problem.” </p>
<p>Mycroft returns his gaze to the fireplace. Silence falls for a few minutes, until Sherlock comes up behind him, and holds out a cigarette.  </p>
<p>Mycroft's eyebrow rises. "A peace offering?"  </p>
<p>"Just the one." </p>
<p>"Why?" </p>
<p>"It’s Christmas ... or at least it will be in a couple of days.” </p>
<p>Mycroft plucks the cigarette from Sherlock's outstretched fingers, while his brother digs in his trouser pocket for a lighter.  </p>
<p>"Smoking kills," Mycroft comments dryly, as Sherlock lights the cigarette for him.  </p>
<p>"All lives end. I'm already officially dead, so you might as well enjoy it while you can."  </p>
<p>Mycroft inhales deeply and then tilts his head back to blow the smoke out again.  </p>
<p>Sherlock has lit his own cigarette and stands beside him at the fireplace. After a long exhale, he says quietly. "It's not like you to give up so easily." </p>
<p>Mycroft flicks the first bit of ash from the end of his cigarette into the fire. "A person should know when they’ve been beaten. If I take the punishment that Moriarty clearly wants me to, then perhaps it will be enough." </p>
<p>"Don't be absurd."  </p>
<p>Does Mycroft hear an undercurrent of concern in Sherlock's admonishment? He needs to squash that. "Sentiment, brother mine? Don't bother. Faking your death was enough to get Moriarty off your back and keep your Doctor Watson alive. Moriarty wants more from me than a simple death; he wants me flayed, in public, preferably in a way that allows him to lay blame for everything on my shoulders. You need to start thinking about <em> your </em> survival plan."  </p>
<p>"Stop this, <em> now. </em> We are not done yet."  </p>
<p>Mycroft scowls and starts reciting a poem, </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> "Like me who have no love which this wild rain </em> </p>
<p><em> Has not dissolved except the love of death, </em> </p>
<p><em> If love it be towards what is perfect and </em> </p>
<p><em> Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint." </em> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Love? Mycroft, you really are beginning to scare me," Sherlock scoffed. </p>
<p>"War, Sherlock, and the inevitability of death." </p>
<p>"Edward Thomas was an idiot," Sherlock spat with fervour. "He was a mature, married man who could have avoided enlisting but instead took Frost's mocking of his indecisiveness personally and ended up dead as a result." </p>
<p>"On the contrary, I am being quite decisive." </p>
<p>"You are being an idiot." </p>
<p>Mycroft stands there glaring at his brother for a few moments until Sherlock removes his cigarette from his mouth and drops back into the armchair behind him. </p>
<p>"Okay, let's take your noble gesture to it's inevitable conclusion, shall we?" Sherlock proposes, emphasising his disdain for the idea by waving the cigarette around in dramatic fashion. </p>
<p>Mycroft sighs and takes a seat in the opposite chair, resigned to bear witness to what Sherlock has to say. </p>
<p>"Say you were to do something so dramatic—throw away your life's work and impale yourself on the sword of duty. What then? Do you really think Moriarty is going to say 'Jolly good show chaps; that was a spot of fun watching him twist in the wind. Now I'll just retire to the countryside'?" </p>
<p>"MI6 will hunt him down." </p>
<p>"Please," Sherlock scoffs, wringing every bit of ridicule out of the one syllable word. "Five or Six won't be able to get within shooting distance. The only people who can bring that madman down are the ones who know him the best, who can get him to come to them. And those people, my dear brother, are you and I." </p>
<p>“I am unencumbered,” Mycroft points out, “no one will miss me. But you, dear brother, have obligations and that obligation bears protecting as well.  </p>
<p>“Do not refer to him as that,” Sherlock snaps, causing Mycroft to take pause at the underlying sentiment in the response. </p>
<p>“Regardless,” he continues. “When the trap is sprung around me, you need to disappear, keep playing dead. Before I get stopped, I can organise witness protection for you—a bolt hole in Florida? I seem to recall you liked it there once.” </p>
<p>“Don’t be ridiculous! It's mosquitoes, sunburn and endless swamp.” Sherlock visibly shudders at the memory, "It’s full of ghastly Americans, and Columbians shifting cocaine.” </p>
<p>Behind them, one of the laptops on the coffee table pings, and Sherlock whirls out of his chair, stuffing his nearly finished cigarette in his mouth to free up both of his hands. He taps the keyboard, bringing it to life as Mycroft leans over his shoulder to see the screen. Sherlock slides the speaker icon to maximum as they both hear Jim Moriarty's voice. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>"At the tone, the time will be…five o'clock." </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"Hi there, boys and girls. I've got a Christmas Rhyme for you:  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>'Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the sky </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Not an airplane is flying, so no one will die; </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>My stocking's still hung by the chimney with care, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Certain that ransom soon will be there; </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Politicians are all shouting, their heads in their hands; </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>While passengers are stranded across the lands. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>So, speak not a word, but go straight to your work, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And fill all my stockings; then turn on the berk, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I will lay my finger aside of my nose, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And giving a nod, up the chimney I suppose; </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I'll spring to my sleigh, to my team give a whistle, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And away I will fly like the down of a thistle. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But as I go, I will exclaim, ere I drive out of sight— </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good flight!” </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"He's insane," Mycroft mutters. </p>
<p>Sherlock snorts. "You're only getting that now?"  </p>
<p>The top pocket of Mycroft's jacket buzzes. He pulls his phone out and taps the speaker icon.  </p>
<p>  </p>
<p><em>"Hi there, berk</em><em>—and everyone else who must be listening into your calls by now</em><em>. You've got until five o'clock on Christmas day to pay up, or watch all air traffic in the USA and Europe be grounded indefinitely.</em><em> Anything that flies is going to fall out of the sky.</em><em> I've got my three little lines of code—the key to unlock airplanes, air traffic control, satellites, airport towers. </em><em>You can't stop me, so pay up. It's a hundred million</em> <em>dollars </em><em>to pay</em><em>, doubling in price until New Year's Day. Toodle-ooo, Old Sport. Oh, and Sebastian sends his regard</em><em>s. Kiss kiss</em><em>."</em> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mycroft grimaces and ends the call. "I'm the berk, obviously." </p>
<p>Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Only if you give in. Go away and deal with all the calls that are about to inundate your phone. Don't you dare concede defeat until as late as you can on Christmas Day. That gives me thirty-six hours to find a solution."  </p>
<p>"What are you going to do?" </p>
<p>"Solve the case of course. Now get out of here and let me think."  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Twenty</p>
<p>Music for Chapter 20 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Stone - Agnes Obel • Citizen of Glass<br/>Slow Life - Grizzly Bear, Victoria Legrand • The Twilight Saga: New Moon (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)<br/>If You Wait - London Grammar • If You Wait</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. And hung him up on a tree,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>"It's a matter of honour, Sherlock." </em> </p><p>Mycroft's resignation, no, worse—his surrender—is still ringing in Sherlock's ears. The fact that Mycroft had taken the cigarette was the surest sign that he's given up completely. </p><p>Sherlock contemplates the wall of evidence. He knows he is on the right track, but can't quite grasp how he is going to be able to put it together in time to stop what Moriarty has put in motion. The truth is there, somewhere, but the key to pulling it out of the web of data eludes him still. It is beyond aggravating. If he had John's gun in hand right now, he'd be shooting at the wall.   </p><p>A matter of <em> honour </em> <em> ... </em> </p><p>It's not the answer. This willingness of his brother to do the ‘honourable thing’ and fall on his sword won't stop Moriarty; if anything, it will only encourage the madman's ego. Not for the first time over the past seven weeks that he's been confined to the flat, Sherlock wants to scream with frustration. The isolation is a torture he'd been willing to endure in order to track Moriarty down, really get to grips with the level of sophistication in his network. His 'death' had been necessary—first and foremost to protect John. It also enabled him to focus without having to deal with the fire-fighting which was all he had been able to do when Moriarty had been toying with him, making him dance to the Irishman's tune. </p><p>But seven weeks, seven whole weeks later, and he still hasn't been able to solve it. He's so frustrated that he grabs a handful of his hair and yanks, hard.</p><p><em> THINK, DAMN YOU!  </em> </p><p>The momentary pain serves only to cut the slightest of swathes through the caffeine, nicotine and stress hormones that seem to be substituting for his real blood these days. Within seconds the brief respite fades, replaced again by the thrum of anxiety that has become the background noise in his head, his constant companion. </p><p><em> Companion. </em> Yes, there it is in a nutshell. The problem is that he's been missing his conductor of light. John always asks the most obvious of questions, but does it in just the right way to trigger Sherlock into new avenues of thinking. Far from making him weak, Sherlock has come to realise how important John is to his brainwork.  </p><p>And other things, too … For seven weeks, Sherlock has told himself that once he solves this case, and Moriarty is safely buried somewhere very, very deep, then he will be able to return to John. To life as it used to be; to the warmth of their shared life and the pleasures of their shared bed. With every passing day, Sherlock has felt the absence of John accreting a layer of hard shell on his soul. What might have been forgiven if it had been over quickly, before the inquest, has piled layers of pain onto layers, creating a barrier that may make it impossible for him to ever return to what they had.  </p><p>Mycroft had the gall to suggest that Sherlock should cut and run, take a new identity, hide from Moriarty. A life alone, a life without even the hope of a reconciliation with John, is not a life that Sherlock is willing to contemplate.  </p><p>Sherlock storms into the kitchen, yanks open a drawer and pulls out a Sabatier carving knife. Anger propels him back down the hallway and into the living room where he hurls the knife across the room to thud into the wall, the forged stainless-steel tip stabbing the sheet of paper that is marked only with a giant letter <strong>M</strong>, and an even bigger question mark. </p><p>This research, this analysis, this quarantine from the events, from the players—it isn't getting him anywhere. He needs to see, hear it, breathe it in—feel every quiver of its beating heart. Somehow, he has to get Moriarty face-to-face, to pull the truth out of him. Preferably on the record and in such a way that is self-incriminating. </p><p>The voice in Sherlock’s head reminds him; <em> you tried that before, in the morgue, and you couldn’t get anything on him the last time. What makes you think you can do it this time </em>?  </p><p>Does it surprise him that the voice asking the question is John's? No, not really. Sherlock has tried so hard to banish that voice, not to think about how John is going to react, if he is lucky enough to be able to resurrect himself. It never works. </p><p><em> How, John? How else am I ever going to solve this? </em> Sherlock knows he has no proof, and without proof, no leverage.   </p><p>Other voices begin to whisper, demons he had put on a leash a long time ago.<em> NOT THE CLEVER ONE. NOT THE CLEVER ONE. NOT THE CLEVER ONE </em> . <em> But you could be again. You could be … </em>they tempt him, their clever tongues curling around the pleasure sensors in his brain, reminding, suggesting, seducing. NOT NOW! He shakes his head violently from side to side to silence them. They slink reluctantly back into the recesses of his brain, biding their time.  </p><p>A few seconds later, logic replaces the question of <em> how </em> with another question. <em> WHERE is he? </em> If he can't find Moriarty, then all this is utterly pointless.  </p><p>He paces. </p><p>And paces. </p><p>And paces some more.   </p><p>At each pass of the side table, he glares at the ashtray full of cigarette butts. The place reeks; he stinks of smoke.   </p><p><em>More than a bit not good ...</em> There is that censoring voice of John’s again; it reminds him that he hasn't shaved, showered or changed his clothes for two days. He mutters a reply, no longer caring whether John is actually present to hear it. "Two days from now, John, planes are going to stop flying, and the world will go to hell. I can’t waste time on something as mundane as personal hygiene."   </p><p>The John who inhabits Sherlock's Mind Palace has no reply.  </p><p>Sherlock waves a dismissive hand at the evidence wall. "I should have solved this by now<em>. </em>If you'd been here to help me, I might have." He turns away. "But I care more about your survival than I do a load of strangers stuck in airports."  </p><p>Sherlock has caught glimpses, tiny little cracks in the armor in Moriarty's earlier work but they don't add up. Some of the intricate plots had been just <em> too </em> complex to be real. Picked apart painfully slowly while Sherlock has recovered from his near fatal blood loss, many of Jim Moriarty's successes reveal a rather pedestrian method—blackmail, extortion, strong-arm tactics—chain-store modus operandi dressed up in a designer suit to look rather cleverer than it actually was.   </p><p>Certainly, the inquest outcome had been one such example, no doubt helped along by way of Mycroft's damning evidence about Sherlock's state of mind. Applying pressure on jurors though—something of an old-fashioned approach, even if it is rarely done at an inquest.  </p><p>Moriarty's serial murder-by-suicides showcase that same flamboyant smoke and mirrors touch. Theatrical. Dressed up to impress. In fact, when all was said and done, the psychopath had simply recruited his candidates via a suicide chat room and then applied a little psychology to push vulnerable people over the edge. In most of the cases, he hadn't even bothered to get own his hands dirty, just provided money, orders to unwitting minions, or incentives to make things go his way. The stages had been set, the performances enacted in their macabre style, simply to attract Sherlock's attention.  </p><p>Sherlock had not wanted to give the man the satisfaction of thinking that he had achieved his aim, but it was the most effective way to play to Moriarty's ego. And his faking his own suicide had bought him time and given John his life.   </p><p>So, what should he make of Moriarty’s ‘aircraft’ games? They seem to bear all the hallmarks of what Mycroft had been trying to recruit Moriarty for—a mathematical and computing genius able to destroy global systems with a few lines of code. Is Mycroft to be blamed for hoping that the man's talents could be diverted into protecting those very same networks? What Sherlock now knows of Jim Moriarty makes his brother's idea seem hopelessly naïve and impossible, almost as impossible as the chaos that is now being threatened over the world's air traffic.  </p><p>One of the laptops pings, and he whirls about to snatch it from the table. This is the one he has open to John's blog. Whatever else is happening, and despite Mycroft’s directions to ‘ignore your Doctor’, Sherlock is still worried about John getting involved, getting so close to the truth that he does something to make himself into a target once again.   </p><p>A quick glance at the latest blog post shows that this time John has written up the Janus Cars case—the 'victim', Ian Monkford had been smuggled to Colombia, leaving a pint of donated blood on the seat of his rental car as evidence of his 'death'. At the bottom of that post, John has added:   </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock always said that pure logic would always triumph over sentiment:</p><p> ‘<em>When you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable…’ </em></p><p> </p><p><em>Oh! </em>  </p><p><em> Oh</em><em>, </em> <em> John! </em> </p><p>Fake deaths—Monkford's and his own. John has worked it out. Sherlock puts the laptop down and resumes pacing. Despite the danger it puts John in, he can't help but congratulate him. <em> Well done</em><em>, </em> <em> John! </em> </p><p>Two circuits on, Sherlock comes to a sudden, abrupt halt.   </p><p><em> Of course</em>—<em>eliminate the impossible! </em> </p><p>What if there is no super-human-computer hacker, with his three lines of mysterious code? Everyone is chasing their tails trying to find the flaw in their systems, looking for a trojan horse, the back-door entry, a piece of malware that could allow Moriarty to hold the entire aviation industry to ransom. What if it was all a bit of the same-old, same-old tactics of bribery, corruption and mayhem confected into a plot that looks far more serious than it is?  </p><p>If Moriarty wanted to bring a plane down without a bomb, to stop every system on the plane from working, how could he have done it? Even the black box had somehow been wiped clean, something that the Federal Aviation Administration in the USA says cannot be done. </p><p>It takes him four circuits of pacing before he stops trying to invent an impossible solution. He looks at the laptops open on the table. What would cause all of them to stop functioning at exactly the same time?</p><p>An electromagnetic pulse! Something strong enough to fry all the electrics in the plane. Not a software issue at all, but rather a weakness in hardware. Only military planes were semi-shielded from EMP weapons.  </p><p>How would Moriarty do it? Sherlock takes three more circuits, and then stops. An EMP device would have had to have been taken from the original target plane and put on board the replacement flight. Every passenger had been screened; all the luggage re-screened. So…  </p><p>… the catering. <em> YES. </em>Why put catering carts onto a plane that was supposed to be falling from the sky? The food would have been re-routed to the replacement plane so the passengers would be fed. A cart could quite easily be the receptacle for an electromagnetic pulse machine. Airside, unscanned, it could even be unknowingly activated by someone who simply opened a latch to pull out meal containers for the convection oven. </p><p>But Sherlock has no <em> proof. </em> It's enough to make him want to murder the Irishman. If only he could find him and challenge him directly ...  </p><p>Then it hits him—OF COURSE! Why hadn't he thought of it before! <em>It is very much a matter of honour! </em> </p><p>He slams shut the six laptops and immediately pinches the bridge of his nose. It's been five days since he had any real sleep. Coffee and cigarettes are all that have been fueling him, and there are limits to their effectiveness. And he needs to be effective NOW! He scratches the crook of his left elbow, and then stares at his fingers.  </p><p>
  <em> Now? The demons ask. Now?</em>
</p><p><em> John’s not going to be happy!</em> the voice in his head counters.  </p><p>He ignores it, after all, <em> needs must when the devil drives! </em> </p><p> </p><p>oOoOoOoOo  </p><p> </p><p>Two hours later, a figure clothed in black jeans and a black leather biker's jacket removes a motorcycle helmet and slips on a pair of sunglasses and a flat cap. After a series of visits to collect the materials he will need, from people who will sell things to a person who won't remove his motorbike helmet, Sherlock finally arrives at Chapone Place, little more than a tiny alleyway giving access to the bins behind the Soho Theatre. It gives him a safe place to stow the motorbike he'd nicked from the back of Number Twenty. The garage doors that open onto Bedford Place must have felt secure enough; the owner probably didn't think any of the residents whose properties backed onto Montague Gardens would be the sort to steal a motorbike. Liberating it as his means of escaping Mycroft's scrutiny was child's play.   </p><p>Similarly, back here amongst the bins and general debris of back alleyways of Soho, there are no CCTV cameras to track his movements. Sherlock slips off the bungee cords and takes the black hold-all off the back of the bike. Pushing his arms through its handles, and fashioning it into a makeshift backpack leaves his hands free for what comes next. Using the seat of the motorbike to give him height, he leaps onto the tallest of the four-wheeled industrial rubbish bins. From there, he can just reach the edge of the next storey's window frame.   </p><p>It takes some effort, and a couple of minutes to lever himself up to the roof. The physical exertion serves as a reminder that his virtual house-arrest for the past seven weeks has left him not as fit and able as he would like. Muscles unused to this kind of strain are complaining loudly. <em> Later</em>—nothing else matters right now than forcing Moriarty out of the shadows.   </p><p>Whilst the lactic acid continues to make itself known, his general lethargy has been banished. Euphoria at the release after being house-bound for so long is being chemically boosted by the cocaine he'd scored thirty minutes ago. It's surging through his veins, alleviating the sense of doom that had enveloped him when Mycroft had left Montague Street. Inhibitions cast aside; there is no time for anything but the most audacious bluff he's ever played. </p><p><em> This is going to work. </em>   </p><p>In a matter of minutes, he's made his way across the three roofs that separate him from the side of Royalty Mews. Not for the first time, Sherlock thanks Google Street View for providing him with the perfect research tool to plot his journey.   </p><p>Sherlock can't waste time. The countdown to five o'clock on Christmas Day is ticking away, beating a pulse of urgency that cannot be ignored. He doesn't have the time to stake the place out to see whether Moran is inside, or not. So, he's plotted something that will ensure he can do what he has to do, wherever Moriarty's man is. </p><p>He has to assume that the balcony of Moriarty's penthouse flat will be protected by security. In fact, he's counting on it. But he has to find a way to get Moran out of the place if he is there, or to keep him out if he isn't; Sherlock needs at least ten minutes, maybe more. He skirts the building, using the others surrounding it to get to the tiny alleyway alongside the prestige development. A number of the rather rundown brick buildings have installed air conditioners on their roofs. He pulls two cannisters from his hold-all, pulls the ring on each of them and positions them inside the cowling of the units. Thick black smoke begins to emerge, drawn straight into the circulation units. He then clambers to the top of the Royalty Mews building, again targeting the four air conditioning units on the roof. Watching the smoke being drawn in, he nods and rings 999.   </p><p>"Which service?"  </p><p>"Fire. I want to report a fire at Royalty Mews, off Dean Street. Better get people out!"    </p><p>He sits down and waits. Two minutes later, the first smoke alarm in one of the flats starts wailing. In the next sixty seconds, four more join in the chorus, making him chuckle. If the noise is anything to go by, residents are now starting to emerge into the courtyard. A cautious look over the roof edge confirms it, as well as the fact that none of them looks like Sebastian Moran.   </p><p>It takes all of three-and-a-half minutes for the fire engines to arrive from the station on Shaftsbury Avenue. and Sherlock watches with a smile on his face as they enter the ground floor lobby to evacuate the building. Why risk running into Moran, if the Fire Service will check to see if he's there? It's all part of the plan.   </p><p>As the firemen move up the building, he can hear them shouting and banging on the doors, to see if there are any residents left at risk. Even now, they will have realised that the smoke is thinning. The cannisters would be finished in less than a minute now. Sherlock knows fire protocols; they won't let the residents back in until they try to discover the cause of the smoke. Collecting the empty cannisters from the roof, he drops onto the balcony of the penthouse flat, knowing that his action will have triggered an alarm but also knowing that the firemen below won't let Moran in, even if he does return to Royalty Mews. He should have sufficient time to do what he needs to do.  </p><p>He can't see the living room that is behind the mirrored glass to know if it is empty, but it doesn't matter. Sherlock places the hold-all on the teak patio table and pulls out a can of Michigan Zinc —spray paint with a hardcore propellant. He gives it very vigorous shake and gets to work.  </p><p> </p><p>oOoOoOoOo </p><p> </p><p>Sebastian is in the Tesco Metro, at the top of Dean Street, when first one, then another fire truck comes tearing down the road, sirens blaring. He ignores them, as every other Londoner does these days. <em> Nothing to do with me</em>. He finishes paying for the milk, bread and ready meals, a bit annoyed that he had picked up <em> two </em> Chicken Jalfrezi packs. How likely is it that Jim will be home any time soon to share it? <em> Not bloody </em> <em> likely </em> <em> . </em> </p><p>"Happy Christmas," the cashier says as she hands over the change. </p><p>Sebastian scowls at the thought. This is one yuletide he's dreading, sitting on his own in the flat, wondering whether he's been abandoned. All he wants for Christmas is to see Jim again, and to know that he's no longer in the dog house. To be let in on his plot—all that, in a nice box, tied up with a big red ribbon.  </p><p><em> Fat chance, </em> Now that Sebastian knows where Jim has been holed up playing his games all this time, he knows that neither food, nor the comfort of home will be enough to get him to return. Jim will have realised that Mycroft Holmes' goons will be watching the flat like a hawk now. A women's suit and a fancy wig aren't going to cut it anymore. And Sebastian also knows that he can't risk returning to St Ermin's Hotel, without jeopardising Jim's plans. For all he knows, Jim will have abandoned the hotel and found another bolt-hole; he'd have done the same if he was in Jim's position.  </p><p><em> Alone—him being visible to Holmes, but clearly alone—protects Jim.  </em> </p><p>The thought of compromising Jim's security irks Sebastian. No longer keen on returning to an empty flat, he stops at a coffee shop, drawn in by the aroma of freshly roasted beans. After ordering a macchiato, "with a tiny, and I do mean <em> tiny</em>, swirl of foamed milk," he sits down at a high table and considers what the hell he is going to do.  He tries to tune out the annoying muzak carols that seem to be on a continuous loop in every shop. </p><p>Jim's plot is clearly immense. Sitting at the back of the St Ermins boardroom suite and watching the man's manipulation of the press had been like watching a general win a battle single-handed. It still rankles that Jim hadn't trusted him enough to share what was going to happen, but he can't help but push aside his own ego for a moment to appreciate the utter audacity of this latest caper. <em> Fucking genius. </em> Jim is a monstrous miracle, a one-off, and the fact that he is willing to care at all for Sebastian is one of the most remarkable facets of their relationship.   </p><p>Oddly, Sebastian doesn't regret for one moment the fact that provoking Watson—hell, even getting himself arrested—brought him back to Jim's attention. That the idea of Sherlock Holmes being alive rattled Jim beyond anything Sebastian had witnessed, and had also given Sebastian a frisson of fear, yet also power. Being the object of Jim's anger is better than being ignored.   </p><p>He's looking out the window, waiting for the coffee to cool just off scalding point, when his phone buzzes. Knocking the macchiato back in one long swallow, Sebastian pulls the phone out of his pocket and unlocks it. No password is needed; Jim had sorted it for facial recognition six months before Apple had first marketed this option.   </p><p>What pops up in a notification makes his blood run cold.   </p><p> </p><p><b> 13.04 </b> <b> INTRUDER ALERT. </b> </p><p> </p><p>It's the flat's security app. He's in motion, out the door and heading down the street (minus the shopping bags which now lie abandoned beneath his vacated chair), before the coffee cup stops rattling in the saucer.   </p><p>The sight of a fire truck parked in front of the entrance to Royalty Mews adds more speed to his pace, and as he turns into the alleyway, Sebastian registers the fact that their firehoses are not unrolled.   </p><p>Inside the brushed metal entrance hall, his path is blocked by a number of residents surrounding a fireman. "Sorry, folks, but you’ll all have to wait. We’re just making final checks."   </p><p>Sebastian shoulders his way through the knot of people to get to the front. "I'm a resident of the penthouse flat. My security system has just alerted me to an intruder."  </p><p>The fireman nods. "Probably one of my men on the roof. Just hold on. Whatever caused the smoke alarms to go off seems to have stopped, and we've found no trace of a fire."  </p><p>"I need to get up there," he growls.  </p><p>"Five minutes … and then we can let people back in."  </p><p>Sebastian's unease increases exponentially. <em> This is </em> <em> way </em> <em> too convenient. </em> But why would anyone in Mycroft's service want to target the empty flat? There is absolutely nothing in it that would incriminate Jim, or give them any idea of his whereabouts. Jim is always meticulous about keeping his business and private life separate.   </p><p>Frustrated, Sebastian steps to the side. Should he find his own way up? Part of his job as Jim's bodyguard involved plotting entry and escape routes when the stairs and lifts were blocked. He opens the security app on his phone and starts typing in the commands that will identify where the system had been breached and what the video shows, because it will determine his route into the flat.   </p><p><em> Holy shit. </em> The black and white footage opens on a figure he instantly recognises—Sherlock Holmes—standing on the balcony outside the living room.  </p><p>Dressed in a short dark jacket, over jeans and trainers, Sebastian sees that Sherlock has something in his hand, which he is shaking vigorously.  </p><p>The video picks up the sound of the wailing fire alarm in the building; the flashing light from the smoke detector in the corner is also visible to the security camera and adding to the cacophony. As the man who is supposed to be dead steps forward to the sliding door, Sebastian recognises that he is holding a can of spray paint.   </p><p>Written in reverse so that the camera displays them correctly, bright yellow words take shape from the letters written on the glass.   </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> GET JiM</b>
</p><p> </p><p>As the last stroke of the letter '<b>M' </b>is finished with a flourish, Holmes goes back and adds a smiley face, with another dot joining the one over the letter '<b>i' </b>to give the emoticon two eyes. Standing back for a moment to admire his handiwork, Holmes shoves the can into the hold-all that is sitting on the table. He rummages about and then pulls something out.   </p><p>A small wad is stuck on the pane of glass, and then something is inserted into the wad, positioned with care. Sebastian can't resist smirking. <em> No way, you bastard. It's bullet proof. </em>Holmes then clips something—a wire—into the thing and then steps back and to the side.  </p><p>The whump of some sort of explosive is caught on the video footage, loud enough to reach Sebastian's ears. A crazy paving of lines has snaked out from the wad, turning the whole pane of glass opaque—but it does not fall. Sebastian smirks again.   </p><p>Holmes grabs one of the heavy teak chairs and heaves it into the glass. Sebastian is outraged to see it explode on impact, countless tiny glass shards pouring to the ground like a waterfall. Whatever the hell Holmes had used in the wad had been stronger than a bullet, possibly Semtex, Sebastian guesses. Now the sound of the burglar alarm adds its noise to the smoke and fire alarms.   </p><p>Holmes stands back, pulling his right glove off. He takes a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket, stuffs it into the glove and then tosses it through the shattered glass into the living room. He looks straight up into the camera, letting the lens see his face in full view and then says in a voice loud enough to be heard over the noise, "Jim Moriarty, you are a fake, a fraud. Defend your honour, or I will tell the world what kind of a coward you are."  </p><p><em> What the fuck? </em>Sebastian starts laughing. Is Holmes crazy? Has he really just challenged Jim to a duel?  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Twenty One</p><p>Music for Chapter 21 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Walk Through the Fire - Klergy, BELLSAINT • Walk Through the Fire<br/>Bones - WENS • WENS<br/>Für Elise - Hidden Citizens • Revivals</p><p>What the <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/615957731321528320/few-escape-the-gallows-7percentsolution"><strong>message</strong></a> Sherlock spray painted on Jim’s balcony door looks like</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. And hung up there together,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Once Sherlock is back on the motorbike again, he takes his time to enjoy his freedom while collecting what he's going to need to bring this plan of his to fruition. He may be on a deadline, but for the first time in almost two months he isn’t under 24-7 surveillance and he's in a good enough mood to have some fun. If that mood is chemically stimulated, well, so be it. It won't last that long. </p><p>By Sherlock's calculation, Mycroft won't have realised that he's left Montague Street for another two hours. That's when the agent upstairs is going to realise that his biker jacket has gone missing. After spending the last seven weeks babysitting Sherlock, the guy is going to be well and truly pissed off that his protected asset has just done a runner. </p><p>Once the motorbike is reported as stolen, the CCTV cameras will be able to reconstruct his journey. He has fun tracing the pattern of the first word, using his mind map's street view to construct an appropriate message to his brother. After finishing the rough approximation of the letter <b> T</b>, he turns up Wardour Street, past Royalty Mews, turning left on Carlisle Street before coming to a halt as soon as the <b> R </b> is completed. Sherlock turns left onto the southern end of Soho Square to make the letter <b> U</b>. If it is accompanied by a squeal of brakes from the cars that are confounded by a motorcycle going the wrong way on a one-way street, it's just one more thing to make him smile this afternoon. </p><p>The <b> S </b>is harder—he knows exactly where the CCTV cameras will pick up his journey, and how to use pavements, alleyways and parking areas to avoid being seen. When he draws the final tail of the S, the bike will have been picked up by every traffic camera on Bateman Street, weaving his way through the traffic going in the opposite direction. </p><p>After that, the second <b> T </b>is simple: a dash down Frith Street, crossed by Old Compton Street, double back on the pavement to avoid the one-way traffic and then back out to Shaftsbury Avenue. </p><p>Sherlock imagines Mycroft's puzzled look at the route that will be showing on the screen. His <b> M </b> is composed by a combination of Shaftsbury, Wardour Street, Dean Street and Gerrard Place; the <b> E </b> involves a lot of doubling back and forth in Chinatown on Shaftsbury, Gerrard Street, and Lisle Street. </p><p>He hopes the message gets through to Mycroft. Whatever the traffic violations needed to paint his message on London's map, it will be worth it if it buys him the time that he needs. </p><p>At the junction of Lisle and Wardour, he turns the motorbike off, crosses the pavement and punches in a number on the keypad at Number 7A. A blue door with a small sign, The KK House is squeezed between a Chinese medicine shop and a bakery. As soon as the door opens, Sherlock wheels the motorcycle across the pavement and inside. He's here to collect some things he's going to need and to swap the motorbike for another form of anonymous transport. </p><p>Down the back alleyway and two buildings along, he enters the kitchen. After re-fuelling on a little sushi—what is it about cocaine that makes him hungry?—Sherlock is ready to take the next order out of the Misato restaurant, heading to north London to make a delivery. He's the third Deliveroo courier on a bike to leave the restaurant to deliver something in the past thirty minutes, so no one notices another one. </p><p>And then he's out, pushing through the traffic, just letting himself enjoy being back on the streets of London. Sherlock breathes it in, feeling every quiver of its beating heart. <em> I have missed this. </em> </p><p>He drops the order off on a little side street near Tufnell Park tube station, and then heads south to the Camden Internet Café. Time to do a little … research. </p><p> </p><p>oOoOoOo </p><p> </p><p>From his position just inside the entrance of the café overlooking the rather dull surrounds of Fortress Road (situated between a piano store and an estate agent—it was never going to be a particularly lively place), Sherlock casts a despairing glance at the coffee maker sitting on top of the faded red laminate counter. He's usually more discriminating when it comes to his choice of refreshment, but he's beginning to come down from his high and in need of a kick, any kick, to see him through and back to Montague street. </p><p>The proprietor appears from the back room. Dark skin, wide smile, wider belly—<em> five-ten, late fifties, clothing says Moroccan but business licence on the wall puts him as a British resident for at least the last ten years. </em> </p><p>“As-salamu alaikum,” Sherlock offers by way of greeting, gritting his teeth through the aches of the fading buzz. </p><p>“Wa alaikum assalaam,” the man returns, smiling widely, “and upon you be peace. You speak Maghrebi Arabic?” </p><p>“A little.” </p><p>In truth, he had known even less of the language before the case in Marrakech, but Mycroft's fluency in Arabic had put his own to shame. So, he had set himself the task of learning some passable phrases when they returned. </p><p>“Coffee?” Sherlock jerks his head towards the machine on the counter, he’s trying for a pleasant tone but he knows as he comes down, his already limited ability to interact well with people will be tested. </p><p>The proprietor follows his gaze and grimaces good naturedly, shaking his head, <em> no, not that stuff</em>. “Do you take sugar?” </p><p>“Thank you, no.” </p><p>The man nods and disappears again into the back room. Sherlock takes up a seat at a desktop computer near the window and gets to work. </p><p>When the proprietor reappears, a few minutes later, it is with a cup in his hand—strong, spiced coffee, with the kick of espresso. Without sugar, it is bitter to the tongue—the taste of death or other sorrow, rather than the sweetened blend served at Moroccan weddings or betrothals. Given current circumstances, it seems the appropriate choice. </p><p>Sherlock takes a sip and feels the caffeine start getting to work, smoothing the edges of his rapidly fraying nerves. A few more minutes and he has what he needs in terms of information, and enough caffeine in his system to see him back. </p><p>Before he leaves though, he has one more thing to do. Cup in one hand he calls up John's blog and looks to see if anything new has been posted. <em> Nothing</em>. Then he opens WhatsApp and scrolls to the last question John sent him, the one he hasn't answered yet. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If you were going to save someone who is bleeding to death without being admitted to a hospital how would you do it?</em>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson</em></b></span>
</p><p> </p><p>He starts typing his reply: </p><p> </p><p><em> You'll get the answer you need tomorrow - meet me in </em> <em> Gibbet Elms </em> <em> at 3.30pm. Take the path from the end of Sandy Road, up the steps on the left-hand side. It's Christmas!</em></p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend</em></b></span>
</p><p> </p><p>The answer comes almost immediately. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Is it really possible?</em>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> John Watson</em></b></span>
</p><p> </p><p>The question makes Sherlock smile. It’s perfect. Perfectly John. The question that allows the answer to shine through, a question that allows Sherlock to shine through—his ‘conductor of light.’ It’s one of the reasons why he's always loved John. Since the very beginning, before Lauriston Gardens, from the instant John stepped into the lab at Barts—the illumination. </p><p>Every moment of the past seven weeks of self-imposed exile has made him aware of just how much John has become a part of him. It's not a case of recovery from the blood-letting, more a question of dealing with an amputation—the loss of John is more than phantom-limb pain; it's an ache that has taken up residence in every cell of his body. </p><p>Which isn't in the least bit surprising considering every moment he has spent in John's company has been carefully stored in his mind palace, meticulously catalogued, analysed and indexed. </p><p>And thank God for that. At least he has had something to keep himself occupied during the excruciatingly boring period of his death. Over the past seven weeks he has he has combed through John’s extensive wardrobe of checked button-down shirts, rifled through the drawers of questionable jumpers and even more questionable vests. He has summoned the twenty two shades of blue that swim through his eyes, the fourteen variations of blond and five of silver hair that adorn his head and cycled through the infinite ways in which John communicates what he is thinking, how he is feeling, with just a look. </p><p><em> John. His John. </em> </p><p>Sherlock regards the last dregs of his coffee before throwing it back and placing the cup down on the table. His eye is caught by the brightly coloured tapestry on the wall and his mind is transported to a rooftop, some six months ago—Sandrine’s place in Marrakech. Just before dusk, amongst the flowers and the bees and against the golden skyline of the city, John had taken his face in his hands and reassured him: </p><p><em> “Yes, you are going to fuck things up, and yes, I am going to fuck things up. We are going to fuck things up together but together we are also going to fix them. Just like we did this time, just like we always do. And if there is a fall, we will be there to catch each other.” </em> </p><p>Sherlock questions whether Johns graciousness will extend to forgive him for what he has done this time, for taking the fall without him. And he wonders whether their relationship will be able to make its way back to that moment on the rooftop. He has cause to be worried, he knows this, and it’s not just the post-high paranoia introducing itself. On another rooftop, this time against the backdrop of the English winter and a desperate game of survival against Moriarty. Weak—he had accused John of making him weak. </p><p>John is strong, and clever. The Janus case blog post showed what lay beneath that ordinary façade, a mind capable of deducing Sherlock's magic trick. Brilliant and amazing. His John. Not weak, not at all. And Sherlock knows that the act of faking his death, of taking the decision to disappear so he could focus on this, the biggest case of his life, had been needed to protect John, that time is coming to an end. His love of John had made Sherlock <em> strong </em> enough to endure their separation, but now he has a chance to end that separation. </p><p>With his plans for Moriarty coming together nicely, he needs the strength that John brings him, he has to hope that John will choose to be there. </p><p>He types a reply, knowing it will provide John with the final proof. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> However inconvenient. However improbable.</em>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend</em></b></span>
</p><p> </p><p>The word ‘typing’ appears at the top of the screen. Then disappears. Then reappears. And then is gone again. </p><p>Nothing arrives. Sherlock waits, hoping for a reply. Finally, he taps out: </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Could be dangerous</em>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b> <em> a concerned friend</em></b></span>
</p><p> </p><p>oOoOoOoOo </p><p> </p><p>Sebastian paces the living room. Finding a contractor willing to come in on Christmas Eve had not been easy and he's had to pay through the nose to get it done. But no way is he going to sit out the holidays in the freezing cold. The temperature in the flat has plummeted, but at least the open-to-the-air circulation means that the lingering scent of smoke is gone. The glass has been hoovered up, the crumpled frame removed, and the contractor is now shaking his head. "Mate, the best I can do for now is to board it up." </p><p>Curbing his desire to throttle the man for thinking he's anyone's "mate", Sebastian snaps, "Not good enough." The idea offends Sebastian's sense of security. It is his job to protect Jim and his property. A bit of wood is no substitute for the kind of glass he needs: mirrored and bullet-proof. </p><p>"No way, man. That's a special order. Takes weeks. I could get you a tempered glass replacement in today, but that's the best you're going to get. And it will cost you. It's Christmas Eve, and that's double-time." </p><p>Sebastian agrees to the man's exorbitant price. If Jim is holding the world's airlines to ransom, money is not a problem. At least the new door will allow Sebastian to re-connect the wiring that gives complete security surveillance, triggering the app as soon as someone tries to gain entry. While the repairman goes off to get the replacement door, Sebastian stands where the glass has been removed and looks for sightlines; his sniper instincts are at work. As long as the glass isn't bulletproof, he will just have to keep Jim from coming up to the living room. </p><p>That assumes Jim will ever return here. By now, the flat is likely to be under surveillance by Mycroft Holmes' people, who will not be so easily fooled by a skirt, heels and a wig this time. He has no idea whether Jim is still at St Ermin's Hotel. Probably not; if he'd been with Jim, Sebastian would have been the first to tell him to move on to a new bolt hole. </p><p>But he's not with Jim. It makes Sebastian wonder when he is likely to see Jim again. And that thought leads to another one, chasing hard on its heels—will he <em> ever </em> see Jim again? </p><p>Now that he's joined the world's super-criminals, Jim might have decided to abandon the flat, leave his clothes, the Porsche, his other possessions behind. <em> Including me. </em> </p><p>He hasn't had any indication that Jim's anger is abating about him being arrested at Watson's flat. The excited thought that Jim's latest crime might have elevated him to a whole new world is now tempered by the realisation that he might have outgrown Sebastian, too. It hurts. More than the knife Jim had wielded to cut his mark into Sebastian's leg. </p><p><em> What does he really think of me? </em> Sebastian knows that there is kind of magnetic appeal that pulls the two men together. Jim has always needed an audience, someone to appreciate him for exactly what he is—a monstrous genius, hell-bent on mayhem and destruction, for the pure malice of it. That this is exactly what appeals to Sebastian is a given in their relationship. He knows he is a hard man; a sniper with no scruples, a killer who takes pleasure in it. Being Jim's bodyguard demands a lot. </p><p><em> And the sex is fucking hot. </em> </p><p>The thought of their last assignation in the garage brings out a brief smile. Maybe he shouldn't worry too much about that threat. Jim can blow hot and cold, but eventually that mercurial moodiness gives way to pleasure, and for that, Sebastian has been his go-to person. </p><p>Still, Holmes being alive is a pain. It makes Sebastian feel insecure. Whatever Holmes has got in mind, the thrown glove had a message inside which Sebastian has yet to deliver to Jim. Given that Holmes wants Jim to meet with him, Sebastian has an urge to make that appointment himself, be there ahead of time and use his sniper's skills to bring Jim a dead body. </p><p><em> Daddy's not going to love you for that… </em> </p><p>Bloody hell—Sebastian seems to have a built-in Jim voice running around in his head telling him what to do. Even so, maybe his subconscious is telling him a truth here. If the idea that Holmes might be alive had been enough to send Jim into a tail-spin of rage, somehow Sebastian knows that keeping the confirmation that he is definitely alive will be even worse. </p><p><em> Sherlock Fucking Holmes </em> </p><p>Why did Mycroft's baby brother have to be alive? And now this shameless provocation, sticking his nose into Jim's plans? Sebastian knows he has to tell Jim; if he sends the footage to Jim that it will be the proof needed to validate Sebastian's earlier revelation that Holmes might still be alive. But Jim's chilling threat about it being the wrong day to die is still rattling around in Sebastian's head. He's never before tested his relationship with Jim in this way. He needs a face-to-face with him, needs to be able to read his state of mind. All this <em> thinking </em> is just a waste of time. </p><p> </p><p> oOoOoOo </p><p> </p><p>Standing on the pavement at the foot of the Western Europe's tallest building, Sebastian smirks. With 11,000 glistening glass panels reaching 310 meters into the rarefied air above London’s Borough district to culminate in a jagged crystal crown, the Shard simply screams the name Jim Moriarty. </p><p><em> Trust Jim to book himself into a hotel that costs £10,000 a night </em> . Sebastian pushes through the revolving glass doors to the lobby. <em> Well, if you are holding the world’s airlines to ransom, why not? </em> Christ, he's got to the point of having whole conversations with Jim in his head. </p><p>In the end, it hadn’t taken too much to track down Jim’s new bolt hole. Never one for subtlety over flair—Jim had booked the premier suite in the name of Mycroft Holmes. A bit more digging through the back end of the Shangri-La Hotel’s booking system showed that it had been paid for in advance—three nights, via banker's draft. The trail that Jim is leaving to implicate Holmes the elder is inspired. </p><p>Finding Jim was the easy part, gaining entry to the suite, though... </p><p>Dressed in the suit Jim had insisted he wear to the inquest—camouflage to blend in with the uptight corporate types that make The Shard their home away from home, Sebastian casually eyes the white marble reception desk. The minimalist lines of the lobby and its infinite number of sightlines makes any attempt to gain unauthorised access to one of the Shard's thirty-six lifts difficult. According to the floorplans he'd researched, the hotel reception area on the thirty fourth floor controls access to all the rooms between there and the fifty fourth floor. No one from the rest of the building's occupants can get one of the lifts to stop. </p><p>The service areas however... Sebastian tracks the progress of one of the hotel’s employee as she makes her way from the lift lobby to converse with one of the concierges at the reception desk. As she heads back again, he makes his move, crossing the marble floor to stand beside her as she presses the down button. </p><p>She glances at him, clearly not sure whether to ask if he belongs here or not. He cuts in with a pleasant “so, have you worked here long… Sherry?” (name tags are so useful) and a thousand-watt smile. </p><p>She can’t help but smile in return. Sebastian knows how to work his not insurmountable charm on the opposite sex. “A few weeks,” she responds. "I work in the Suites Concierge department; still finding my feet, to be honest." </p><p>Good. She’s not going to ask too many questions. </p><p>“Frederick Jamison, Executive Vice President Revenue Optimisation from Head Office. I just flew in today,” he offers his hand. The name is real, the title is real—why people insist on sharing all their details on LinkedIn he never will understand. It makes impersonation child's play. </p><p>“Oh, Mr. Jamison nice to meet you,” she nervously takes his hand and shakes it. “Are you her to meet with Mr. Lewis? (The General Manager, he’s done his research). </p><p>“Yes, but not until seven o'clock. I was wanting to take a quick look around privately." He touched the side of his nose and gave her a knowing look. "Once Lewis knows I am here, I get the official tour, which isn't half as revealing. So, I want to stay off the radar for a couple of hours and have a nose around. Could you organise a badge that will let me snoop around privately? I can put in a good word with the suites manager about how helpful you've been." </p><p>The answer is a predictably breathy "Oh, Yes!" Ambition in one so young and easily fooled is always delightfully useful. </p><p>Once she's produced the desired swipe card from the reception desk on Level Thirty-Four, Sebastian flashes her a big smile and makes a note of her name in the little black book he always carries. "Now, Miss Simons, can I ask for one more favour?" </p><p>"Just ask." Her eagerness to please is almost puppyish in its enthusiasm. He suppresses the urge to ruin her day by telling her that all her prettiness is totally wasted on him." Would you mind escorting me to the Tīng kitchen?” </p><p>Sherry is more than amenable to help out the ‘big wig’ from Corporate and flirts casually with him as she takes him back into a staff-only area and into a set of stairs. "We're encouraged to use the stairs if we're only going one floor up or down." She pats her backside, attractively attired in a black pencil skirt. "Keeps us fit, the management says." </p><p>The Tīng is "Modern British with a Chinese influence," Sherry explains, "Three sixty views of London for the restaurant and lounge patrons".  Once behind the staff doors, the place opens out into a series of kitchens. "The heart of food preparation for the whole hotel," she proudly points out. The Head Chef, Jeremy Black, has a great reputation." She points him out, a harried figure working across the central core of the hotel. The lift shafts in the very centre of the ring of kitchens are busy; waiters are coming and going in a steady flow.  </p><p>"Would you like me to introduce you to Mister Black?" </p><p>"Oh, no. That would blow my cover," Sebastian says theatrically. "I'm just going to nose about in how the suites are served." </p><p>A pager buzzes in Sherry's jacket pocket. "Uh oh. Got to go. My guests in the Southwark Suite want me." </p><p>"Go," he commands imperiously. "I can look after myself. Thank you for your assistance. I will be sure to mention how helpful you've been to Mister Lewis." </p><p>She gives him one more smile and disappears into one of the service lifts.  </p><p>Left to his own devices, Sebastian positions himself within view of the room service desk and waits for his cue. Orders come and go by phone, are input into the system and then show up on the plasma screen above the station by room number and suite name. Orders are marshalled, collected and then carted to be delivered by a steady stream of wait staff. The usual orders, garnering nothing more than the usual amount of attention. </p><p>He knows the order that he has been waiting for has come in when the staff member answering the call straightens imperceptibly, taps in an order which light ups on the screen as the Shangri La suite on Level 39. </p><p><em> Bingo! </em> </p><p>Twenty minutes later, white linen napkin slung over his forearm, Sebastian is pushing a trolley towards the private lift and jabbing the button with his thumb. Having commandeered the delivery from the young twink Jim had no doubt personally requested to deliver his meal, Sebastian is on his way up, at six metres a second, to the best suite in the hotel. </p><p> </p><p>oOoOoOo </p><p> </p><p>The lift chimes and the doors open to reveal the living room of the suite that takes up a vast portion of the thirty-ninth floor. </p><p>If Jim is surprised to see him, he doesn’t show it as he regards Sebastian from his position, slouched in the middle of the custom-made ivory quilted lounge with his signature dead-eyed stare. Behind him, the skyline view along the River Thames from Canary Wharf to the London Eye </p><p>“Boss,” Sebastian starts, pushing the trolley one side. </p><p>Jim uncrosses his legs and gets to his feet, his finger raised in warning. Sebastian knows to say nothing else. </p><p>“What… are you… doing here?” Jim muses as he crosses the room, the plush carpet muffling his footsteps. “Do you have a death wish, my dear Sebbie?” </p><p>Sebastian holds himself completely still as Jim comes to stand less than a foot away from him. “Inside pocket,” is all Sebastian replies. "Special Delivery." </p><p>Jim cocks his head to one side, holding Sebastian’s gaze as he slides a hand inside the right inside pocket of Sebastian’s suit jacket. Sebastian stills the frission of excitement that ripples through his blood when Jim’s fingers brush against his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt.  </p><p>When Jim removes his hand, he is holding a memory stick. He stares Sebastian down for a few extra seconds (the warning that whatever it is on the drive better be worth his trouble, evident in his pointed gaze) before he goes back to his laptop, plugs the stick and clicks on the file.  </p><p>Just as Sebsatian hears the audio coming through the laptop’s speaker he pronounces, “Holmes is alive and kicking.” </p><p>“So. I. Can. See,” Jim's words slice dangerously through the air in the room. </p><p>Sebastian takes the silver salver with its cover from the trolley and carries it over to the coffee table. As the footage ends with Sherlock Holmes smashing the patio door and throwing something in, Jim's face hardens into a scowl as he hears Holmes' taunt about being a fraud. </p><p>"Boss, there's more." </p><p>"Show me." Jim makes no attempt to soften the command. </p><p>Sebastian whips the cover off the platter to reveal the glove. "He left this. With a message inside." </p><p>"What message?" Jim snarls. </p><p>Sebastian pulls the note out of his top pocket and reads, </p><p> Dear Jim, </p><p>Come and play. </p><p>Gibbet Hill, Hampstead Heath </p><p>16:00, Christmas Day.  </p><p>Sherlock Holmes xx. </p><p>“I will end him for you.” </p><p>“No, you won’t.” Jim gets up from the sofa and takes the glove from the platter with his right hand and proceeds to slap it against the palm of his left as he paces around the room. </p><p>“So, this is how you want it to end, Sherlock, like some eighteenth-century drama queen? Pistols drawn at dusk?” Jim laughs incredulously, but his eyes show just how excited he is by the prospect of a show-down.  </p><p>“This isn’t a good idea, Boss,” Sebastian blurts before he realises the inherent criticism in his words. The fear of losing Jim—losing him in this way—is cutting through his usual sense of propriety and self-preservation. </p><p>Jim rounds on him in instant. “Excuse me?” his words icy cold and his eyes completely black pinning Sebastian to the spot. </p><p>Sebastian starts to panic, placating desperately, “No, no, that’s not...” Shit, how does he get Jim to see? "The... the best way is just to take Holmes out; one shot, that is all it would take and this… whatever this is, would all be over." </p><p>Jim puts an exaggerated frown on his mouth. "Not very sporting of you, Tiger." </p><p>In the end Sebastian simply lays it all on the line, “I can’t lose you.” </p><p>The violence in Jim’s eyes changes to something… more curious, like he’s looking at Sebastian for the first time. </p><p>“Oh, poor sweet simple Sebbie,” he steps forward, closer, bringing the glove up to Sebastian’s face to stroke his cheek with it. “Don’t you know it by now? You’ll never be rid of me, you’ll always be mine.” </p><p>He strokes the glove down Sebastian’s face one more time and then spins away, grinning. “And this duel. It's not about guns. It's about brains, not bullets. The death? The drama? Wouldn't miss it for the world, Tiger." </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Twenty Two</p><p>Music for Chapter 21 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Walk Through the Fire - Klergy, BELLSAINT • Walk Through the Fire<br/>Bones - WENS • WENS<br/>Für Elise - Hidden Citizens • Revivals</p><p>What the words <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/616212444091662336/few-escape-the-gallows-7percentsolution"><strong>TRUST ME</strong></a> traced into the streets of Soho by Sherlock on motorcycle look like.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Have been taken from their feasts,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's before dawn on Christmas Eve and John can’t sleep. Mrs. Hudson is at her sister's place—he had told her weeks ago that he "wasn't in the mood" for any kind of celebration or company, and she had taken him at his word. </p><p>As he looks around the flat, the contrast with last Christmas mocks him. No string of fairy lights in the window; no fire crackling in the grate. No carols played on a violin, no gifts, no festive feast of food. If Sherlock had been here, John knows that it would have been the culmination of a month of moaning about the sentimentality of the yuletide season, the consumerism, the crush of people in London—not to mention the dearth of serious cases.  </p><p><em> Why do the criminal classes take this time as an excuse to stop their work? </em> John can hear the whine of frustration in the baritone voice that still echoes in his head. </p><p>This Christmas, he'd wanted to calm Sherlock with the one distraction that took his case-solving mind off The Work. As early as October, John had started thinking about how they would spend their first Christmas properly together—in bed. He'd imagined the man's touch—a honied, silken stroke of those elegant fingers across John's skin. Then he'd hand over that small box, wrapped up carefully and know that Sherlock would have deduced its content before he'd even opened it to reveal the ring.   </p><p><em>He'd wanted… </em> </p><p>Today, instead, the flat is cold, dark and empty—exactly how John feels. The ring he would have been offering is still in the box, at the back of the drawer in the bedside table upstairs. Angry, depressed and agitated beyond belief by the swelling of his emotions, John bolts out of his chair. He can no longer cope with the fact that there is no reply to his messages. It's burning a hole through him, the idea that this might be the day when he learns that Sherlock is actually alive or whether this has been just one big game that Moran has been playing to fuck with his mind. </p><p>He looks at his phone again: </p><p>
  <em> You'll get the answer you need tomorrow-meet me in Hampstead Heath at Gibbet Elms at 3.30pm. Take the path from the end of Sandy Road, up the steps on the left-hand side. It's Christmas!  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Is it really possible? </em> John had replied, and the response had been almost immediate: </p><p><em> However inconvenient. However improbable. </em> </p><p><em> Could be dangerous. </em> </p><p>John has re-read the exchange a hundred times. The replies are from a phone number he doesn't recognise, but then why would he? Sherlock's phone is still in the evidence bag in forensic storage, right where it's been since the day it was found smashed on the floor of Barts morgue. The fact that whoever is behind this number in his WhatsApp messages knows John's personal phone number is yet one more nail in the coffin of Sherlock's fakery. As for the username in the comments on his blog—the phrase ‘a concerned friend’ came up the very first night he and Sherlock worked together. No one but Sherlock could have known. It tells John that it is finally time to believe the unbelievable—that Sherlock is not only alive, but in covert communication with him. </p><p>John had been so shocked and then enraged that he'd started and then deleted a reply twice. What the hell could he possibly say? Apparently, Sherlock is actually alive, having perpetrated a crime against everything that he and John had built in terms of their relationship. How could Sherlock… how could <em> anyone </em> do such a thing to someone they loved? It beggars belief. </p><p>When his phone rings, the sound startles him to the point that he fumbles and nearly drops it. </p><p>"Hello?" John desperately wants to hear that baritone again, telling him the truth, but instead it is a woman's voice on the other end of the line, "Doctor Watson?" </p><p>"Yes." He knows his voice will telegraph his disappointment.</p><p>"Oh, I am sorry to be calling you so late on Christmas Eve, but I thought it was urgent. This is Doctor Jean Babbage; I'm a registrar in the renal ward at Guys. You left a message that was passed onto me by one of my colleagues, about an admission on the night of the 3rd of November. You wanted to know the name of a patient so you could contact him? He fits the description—aged thirty-six, six-foot-tall, dark curly hair, blue eyes. He was in pretty bad shape; had lost a lot of blood, from a… kidney haemorrhage, according to his transfer documents." </p><p>John manages to blurt out, "His name?" </p><p>"Cooper, Billy Cooper." </p><p>"What happened to him?" </p><p>"Stabilised and transfused here and then transferred again thirty hours later, to a private hospital; the Wellington. I'm afraid someone may have made a mistake on the admission documents; I tried ringing the phone number listed, but it is no longer in service." </p><p>"Thank you, Doctor Babbage; I'll take it from here." </p><p>"Glad to be of service; good night, Doctor Watson. And Happy Christmas."  </p><p>John sinks back down into his chair. </p><p>For the rest of the night, he stays there, staring at the empty leather and chrome chair opposite him as his mind keeps whirring. Billy Cooper—why is the name so familiar? <em> “Aged thirty-six, six-foot-tall, dark curly hair, blue eyes,” </em>he knows the patient is Sherlock.  </p><p><em> Lost a lot of blood… a lot of blood… blood. </em> </p><p>Then it comes to him. Goddamn it! When Moriarty had tried to frame Sherlock for the Battersea murder, John had confirmed Sherlock’s pronouncement that he couldn’t have left the blood at the scene. The red blood cell count was practically non-existent—it had to be weeks, even months old. Lestrade had insisted on confirmation and had brought in an Assistant Forensic Pathologist to provide it: </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What can you tell me about these two reports?” Lestrade had asked her.</em>
</p><p><em> “You mean aside from the… ah… frankly quite impressive amount of </em> <em> benzoylmethyl-ecgonine </em> <em> in this one?” She had looked over the top of the paper at Sherlock appraisingly. “This yours? Nice work...” </em></p><p> </p><p>John remembers how Lestrade had attempted to refocus the conversation. </p><p>  </p><p>
  <em> “Yes, okay, thank you. We are not interested in the cocaine, what we—I—actually need to know, is if there a difference between the two reports? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Uh? Same person? But this one,” she had held out the crime scene analysis, “this one isn't right. RBC count is way too low… when was this sampled? Yesterday? Couldn't possibly be fresh. Has to have been stored for quite a while.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock had been exonerated. And the name of the Assistant Forensic Pathologist… Wilhelmina Cooper, or in its abbreviated form… ‘<em>Billy’ Cooper. </em> </p><p>Jesus fucking Christ, she probably even helped him do it<em>—</em>of all the people they'd run across, she's probably the one most qualified to have removed Sherlock out of the Old Operating Theatre and across the road to the ward; she would have the medical training and qualifications to keep alive a person who was nearly dead from blood loss.  </p><p>He’s going to fucking kill Sherlock when he gets his hands on him. It's one more fact, one more piece of evidence that proves Sherlock is alive and that he's rigged his own death as some elaborate hoax. Whatever joy John might feel that the man he loved is not dead, is now tainted by the knowledge that the same man was capable of doing such a thing to John, to make him believe he was dead. </p><p>The plot would have taken days, even weeks to organise. The idea of Sherlock sitting there in his chair in Baker Street and lying through his teeth to John all through the ridiculous serial suicide cases—the realisation is like a knife, stabbing repeatedly into John. Only the pain doesn't go. There is no blissful surrender to unconsciousness that would come from a real knife wound. No blood loss to be faked here. The agony of Sherlock's betrayal just goes on and on… </p><p>After considering and then tossing out every conceivable excuse he could conjure for why Sherlock would have done this to him, John finally reaches the end of his tether. Grabbing his phone from the little Indian table beside his chair, he opens WhatsApp and starts typing:</p><p><em> 04:02 Really? NOW you need me?</em> </p><p><em> 04:10 If you are who I think you are </em> <em> , ”Billy </em> <em> Cooper” then you have some explaining to do.</em> </p><p><em> 04.30 Happy Christmas to you. I'm done playing games. Answer me!</em> </p><p>There is no reply. </p><p>At six o'clock, he gives up. It's still pitch-black outside, but he gets out of his chair and goes into the bathroom. A shave and a shower do nothing to restore his mood; looking at the mirror as he brushes his teeth, John can see the ravages of not just this sleepless night, but the last seven weeks of being in limbo, left adrift by first the loss of Sherlock, and then the growing realisation that there was something even more heinous about the idea that he is alive. Captive? Or conspirator? John has no idea which it could be, but is determined to find out today, one way or the other. </p><p>He makes himself eat breakfast. A cooked one—fried egg, sausage, toast and several cups of coffee. John knows that he needs fuel if he is going to be able to handle whatever he is going to find at Gibbet Elms. The food tastes like dust in his mouth, but he forces himself to eat it. </p><p>On autopilot, he washes up the breakfast things and then goes into the living room, turning his chair to face his evidence wall. John uses the time to fill in the gaps, posting new notes up. He prints out the messages from a concerned friend, sticking them up alongside the map of Hampstead Heath. There is method in this madness; if it does turn out to be a plot by Moriarty and Moran, then John wants to be able to lead Mycroft to it—that is if Mycroft ever manages to get out of whatever hot water he's managed to get himself in. At noon, John gets his Browning pistol from the drawer upstairs and proceeds to give it one of the most thorough cleans he's ever done, anger and anticipation fueling his motions. He checks and re-checks the weapon's functioning. There is no tremor in his hand when he takes aim at the smiley face on the wall over the sofa. He doesn't waste the ammunition by actually firing—no need to add to the damage Sherlock already inflicted on the plaster. </p><p>If it does turn out to be Moran, John won't hesitate. If he goes on trial for murder, well, so be it. At least then, he'd get the chance to tell the truth about what Moran and Moriarty did to Sherlock. There'll be no Coroner shutting down his testimony this time. And if the sniper proves to be a better shot than him, John can accept that, too. Life without Sherlock has proven to be complete and utter crap, so no loss there. </p><p>At one forty-five, John leaves the flat and starts walking. The streets are eerily empty, devoid of traffic, not another pedestrian in sight. No buses, no trains, no underground service on Christmas Day means that people have already gotten to where they want to be for the family holiday. Even the dog walkers are absent as all across London, people are sitting down to their Christmas dinners.</p><p>According to Google it should take him an hour and twenty minutes to make the journey on foot. He will be ten minutes early, but he doesn't care; he can't wait any longer not knowing whether this is a trap or a painful truth. </p><p>He swears he can smell the aroma of cooking turkey as he leaves Regent Park's Outer Circle, crosses the footbridge over the canal and comes to Prince Albert Road. There is so little traffic that he doesn't need to wait for the pedestrian light to turn green. </p><p>Despite the message's specific instructions, Google maps had been no help to him when it came to finding just where in the seven hundred and ninety acres of Hampstead Heath a ‘gibbet’ might have been. It had been a trail map that finally identified the Gibbet Elms' location on the western bit of the heath that is nearer to Golders Green than it is to what the tourists think of as Hampstead Heath. </p><p><em> Leave it to Sherlock to pick a place where people were hanged and their bodies left to rot in iron cages as a deterrent to others</em><em>...</em>  </p><p>On the other hand, it's also the same sort of theatrical crap that Moriarty would come up with. The similar nod to the macabre could all be part of the trap. He doesn't think the Irishman is going to show up, even if the plan is his idea. With all the airline stuff going on, surely he wouldn't dare risk being seen in the open? Or maybe John is giving him too much credit; without Sherlock's skills of deduction, he could be very wide of the mark. </p><p>John walks northwards up Avenue Road, wondering how it got its peculiar name; isn't an avenue a road, by definition? Anything really, to stop himself from thinking about Sherlock, Moriarty and Moran. The high-rise expensive apartment blocks looking over Regent's Park soon give way to more stately red brick houses, the most desirable part of St. John's Wood, where detached houses regularly sell for twenty million pounds or more. Sherlock and he had once investigated a crime up here—a break-in that had thwarted a seemingly state-of-the-art security system to steal a particularly valuable piece of French Impressionist art. Sherlock had found the evidence of tampering that implicated the owner, who was after the insurance money to cover a gambling debt he was keeping from his wife. </p><p>John inwardly curses himself for failing to keep Sherlock out of his thinking. That’s the problem—<em>no rest for the </em>weary, as the saying goes. His whole bloody life seems to be oriented around what he and Sherlock had done. Not just the case work; he hasn’t been able to fix himself a cup of tea without automatically putting two mugs on the kitchen table. His life had been so intimately connected to Sherlock's, in so many ways, that the past two months have been a constant, continuous reminder of what is missing. </p><p>The idea that Sherlock is alive, that somehow the whole charade of the blood-letting at the Old Operating Theatre, his disappearance, and now his possible resurrection are all part of some elaborate game, hurts almost as much as believing that Sherlock is dead and he's walking into a trap. The idea that Sherlock could inflict such pain, knowing his death would devastate John, is a betrayal of the love that John thought they had shared. As much as he wants to believe that Sherlock is alive, John also doesn't want to confront the consequences of his lover having faked his death. John's quick march striding slows a bit when he reaches Fitzjohn Avenue. Passing the Portman and Tavistock Hospital on his right, he starts the climb up to Hampstead Heath. </p><p>He's puffing slightly by the time he reaches the underground station in the middle of Hampstead. The station's iron gates are closed, and there is almost no traffic. An occasional pedestrian is hunkered down in their coat, drawing their shoulders in against a relentless wind coming down from the north. "Arctic conditions" the BBC weather report had said. Grey skies and scudding clouds add to the scene as he continues up Heath Street. When he passes the old Queen Mary hospital, used just for nurses and NHS key worker accommodation these days, John's eyes are drawn to the small pond and the wide-open spaces of the Heath.  </p><p>Not long now—he checks the google street map again. Five roads intersect at this junction and it wouldn't do to take the wrong one. He gets his bearings and continues up Heath Street; another hundred meters on, he has to take the left-hand fork, North End Way, passing the Jack Straw's Castle Inn on his left. The car park is packed; must be offering a Christmas Dinner service to those north Londoners too posh to cook for themselves. </p><p>The next thousand meters is a long uphill slog, passing the closed iron gates of Inverforth House then various turnings of footpaths into the western section of the Heath's parklands. The instructions had been specific—enter via Sandy Road—but John had considered coming to the rendezvous point from a different angle, just in case it was a trap. </p><p>But in the end, he decides to trust that it has been Sherlock giving the instructions. So, he turns left onto the narrow dead-end road, past various houses with cars parked up on the pavements to let other residents drive past and then at the end, walks past the sign and into the park on a wide path between the trees. There is no one else in sight; the park never closes, but Christmas Day's indoor festivities and the weather are keeping pedestrians to the more accessible areas of the park. It's probably the reason why Sherlock chose this place as the rendezvous point. </p><p>John can see the steps on the left, as the message had described. At the bottom of them, he stops and catches his breath. He listens hard, trying to hear what his eyes can’t see. Who will he find at the top? He can see tall, wind-bedraggled pine trees at the top; a collection of holly bushes screens the area to the right, beyond the wooden handrail. </p><p>He’s an easy target if someone decides to come out of the bushes and shoot down at him. The thought prompts him to draw his gun from his pocket. </p><p>Halfway up the steps, the holly bushes give way and John's attention is drawn to a solitary figure sitting on a park bench, some thirty feet away. </p><p>"I'm unarmed." </p><p>The fact that the voice saying this is the baritone he's missed for seven weeks makes John's brain stutter to a halt. </p><p>He has to look away, take a couple of deep breaths. To give himself something to do while he is coming to terms with the new reality, he scans the tree line for possible targets. Could this be a set-up? Has Moriarty forced Sherlock into sitting there, like some bait laid out to attract him? </p><p>"I'm alone." </p><p><em> Christ</em>. Sherlock can still deduce what he's thinking… Even as the thought occurs to him, anger and relief boil up inside him—an almost molten combination that stirs him into motion. John ducks under the wooden handrail and charges up the slope only coming to a halt once he is right in front of the bench. Sherlock is wearing a pair of black jeans, a black hoodie and a biker's leather jacket. His hands are gloved, but he's not wearing a scarf. Ridiculously, John's first thought is that he must be freezing. His second thought is that he wants to kiss the bastard, to wrap his arms around him and feel the realness of him, solid bone and muscle and a beating, living heart. His third thought is that he's just as likely to punch Sherlock for what he's put him through.</p><p>He knows he should speak, say something, but he finds he has simply too many questions, accusations, frustrations and emotions to find words to express, let alone put in any semblance of order. So instead he just stares at the man sitting on the bench in front of him, the man that was, is meant to be, the love of his life.</p><p>"John…" Sherlock's tone is unusually careful, almost hesitant. So much so that he repeats himself, as if testing out John's name to see how his words will land. "... John."</p><p>When John says nothing, just continues to stare, Sherlock clears his throat before launching into what John suspects is a well rehearsed script.</p><p>"We don't have much time, John, so the rest of what I have to say will have to wait until later. If what is about to happen goes the way I want it to, then there will be plenty of time to explain afterwards, to yell at me, to do whatever it is that you think needs to be done. But unless you do what I am about to ask of you, there will be no time at all for either of us." </p><p>John doesn't want scripted words though, he wants answers. "Time?” he raises his eyebrows. “What about the last seven weeks? Hmmm?" </p><p>Sherlock shakes his head. "Later—all of that has to come later. In ten minutes or so, maybe less, Jim Moriarty is going to come into that clearing behind us. He will bring his second, Sebastian Moran, and he and I will fight a duel." </p><p>Everything else that John had been thinking, internally raging about stutters to a halt as he just stares at Sherlock. He tries to make sense of what is happening, what these ridiculous words Sherlock just said could actually mean, but all that comes out is an incredulous, "Duel? What, pistols at dawn sort of duel?" </p><p>Sherlock snorts. "More like twilight, but otherwise, yes. I have challenged him to come out of hiding and confront me." </p><p>"Why would he do that?” John demands. “I don't know what the hell you think you've been doing for the past couple of months, but you probably would have noticed that he's holding the fucking world to ransom at the moment, or at least anyone who wants to fly in an airplane. Why would he bother?" </p><p>For the first time, Sherlock lifts his head enough for him to look straight into John's eyes. "It's a matter of honour. He's a fraud, and I've told him so. He'll be here. His plot relies on being able to maintain his image of invincibility. I'm the only thing between him and getting away with it." Sherlock looks away again. "He will come." </p><p>"So, this whole charade of yours—being dead and all that—is this part of your game with him? Christ, Sherlock what is it with you and Moriarty?! You two, playing your games, treating everyone, the whole fucking world, as just pawns. Where does that leave me, hmmm?" John knows that Sherlock will read his fury, in the way he is standing, the set of his shoulders, the clench of his jaw. </p><p>"We don't have time for this, John. You were a soldier. You know that there are times when action is required. This is one of those times. Do this for me now, and if we survive, then I'll answer any question, tell you anything you need to know. Just not now; there is too much at stake—not just you and me, but governments, airlines, passengers, national security. He has to be brought down and this is the only way to do it. You have to trust me." </p><p>Now John is the one to look away. He'd once thought he would give his right arm to see Sherlock alive and whole again, but now that he's standing in front of the living, breathing man, somehow the sight is more than he can take. Looking over the bench and into the clearing beyond the path, John can see that the sun must be close to setting; it's already at the tree line. </p><p>The soldier in him thinks this is a lousy time to be trying to shoot anyone; twilight will be upon them momentarily. He shakes his head. "I've never seen you fire a pistol. What makes you think that you'd be able to shoot Moriarty at twenty paces in this fucking light? Or, better still, what makes you think that Moran would ever let you anywhere near Moriarty with a loaded gun? He'll kill you first, even before you two get halfway through the farce." </p><p>"That's where you come in. I need you to keep your gun on Moran. Make him watch, but let him know that if he tries anything, then you will kill him. You did come here determined to make an end of him, didn’t you?" </p><p>"How do you know that?" </p><p>"I know <em> you</em>, John. I've not been blind to the pressure Moran has been putting on you." </p><p>"Was it fun, then? Sitting on the side lines, watching me make a fool of myself at the inquest and later?" John folds his arms across his chest, challenging. </p><p>Sherlock shakes his head slowly. "No. But I don't have time to explain anything more. I just need you to agree to be my second." </p><p><em>Second</em>… John’s mind goes to whatever he can remember about the etiquette of dueling: </p><p><em> ‘A challenge can be issued on the spot by casting a glove, or "gauntlet," onto the ground before the opponent</em>.’ </p><p>How had Sherlock challenged Moriarty? John casts it aside as being unimportant in the moment. </p><p><em> ‘The challenged has the right to choose their own weapon, after which the challenger can decline any second species of weapon proposed by the challenged. </em> </p><p>“A duel,” John reiterates, shaking his head. “You’ve really challenged Moriarty to a duel.” </p><p>“Of course,” Sherlock replies, seemingly put out that John sees the need to continue to question his plan. “Why not?” </p><p>“Why not? <em> Why not </em> ?” John’s tone rises as he uncrosses his arms and places his hands on his hips. “Because this is <em> Jim fucking Moriarty </em> we are talking about. You know—'the rules don’t apply to me’ Jim Moriarty? What if he just decides to shoot you in the back?" </p><p>"Jim Moriarty is many things—psychopath, liar, a fraud who has painted himself as a criminal mastermind. But one thing I know I can count on. His ego is too fragile to be able to handle having to win by cheating. Moran being there as witness means he will follow the rules. He wants to, no <em> needs </em> to be seen to be the winner." </p><p>"And if you both miss? In this gloom, it's probably likely." </p><p>"If neither of us manages to hit our target, then the second round will be with weapons of my choice." Sherlock gestures to the long, dark duffel bag under the bench. "Rapiers. He won't stand a chance." </p><p>John remembers the sword hanging up in Sherlock's bedroom. He'd never asked about it; just read the little brass plaque: <em> First Prize </em> <em> Camford </em> <em> Fencing Society, 1999</em>. </p><p>“You want me to be your second, then?” John considers.  </p><p>“Of course,” Sherlock assures him with complete sincerity, “who else? This is a battlefield, John, and I know of no one else I'd rather have on my side than you. If you want an incentive, according to etiquette, <em> ‘Where seconds disagree, they may resolve to exchange shots themselves’.</em><em>” </em> </p><p><em> The chance to face down Moran… </em>Now that is something John wants, really wants.  </p><p>There is a muffled chirp from inside Sherlock's leather jacket. He draws out a phone and nods. "That's our cue." He gets to his feet and slings the duffel bag onto one of his shoulders, looking west into the clearing. "Coming?" </p><p>John is pretty sure that this ‘duel’ idea is the worst one he has ever heard but despite that he clicks the Browning's safety off, puts it into his right pocket, keeping his hand on it and replies emphatically, "God, yes."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Twenty Three</p><p>Music for Chapter 23 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Touch - Ghostly Kisses • Touch (Acoustic)<br/>Cloud - Elias • Warcry<br/>Power - Isak Danielson • Power</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. To swing and have endless leisure</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As battlefields go, this one is not at all to John's liking.  </p>
<p>The grass underfoot is slippery. It's not raining at the moment, but it's been drizzling on the Heath for days, turning whatever bare soil that once formed the path into a sticky brown morass. He’s glad he’s wearing his Timberlands—sturdy, practical boots, with a tread deep enough to ensure purchase in the slick mud.  </p>
<p>Truth be told, he’s always found the Heath a strange place. One where a gentle stroll alongside oak and beech can quickly turn into a wild adventure with the only company to be had, the brambles and bracken whose fingers snatch at trouser legs and beckon one deeper. There had been more than one moment, in the midst of yet another wild suspect chase with Sherlock, when he had thought that they might not actually find their way out of those woods again. This time, he concedes reluctantly, it might actually be the case. </p>
<p>Alighting from the bench, Sherlock moves to lead him up the hill towards the clearing but John fixes him with a look and Sherlock acquiesces, dropping back and allowing John to go first. Sherlock is brilliant, one of a kind. Able the read the tiniest fragments of evidence and construct an entire timeline of the events before anyone else realises what they are seeing—a genius. But what genius lacks, what John knows he brings to their partnership, is the sixth sense of a soldier. The one that whispers lowly, despite any physical evidence to the contrary, that danger lies around the next corner. That gut feeling that has saved him and his men on the battlefield on more than one occasion, John has trusted in the past to save his and Sherlock’s lives as well. He’s going to trust it now. </p>
<p>That same soldier's instinct is what allows him to compartmentalise, to be able to put aside his own feelings, his desperate need to know why Sherlock could have done such a thing, lied through his teeth, planned his own fake death, left him to mourn and grieve. Such a monstrous thing… </p>
<p>And yet here they are, and here he is leading Sherlock into the line of fire...  </p>
<p>Only a few steps, and already the mud has tracked a splattered path up the front of his trousers to the shin. Splatter, he considers as he navigates the path carefully, why is it only blood and mud that splatter? It brings an unwelcome memory of blood on the floor of the Old Operating Theatre, and bile rises in his throat. He’s not being manipulated again by Sherlock, is he? </p>
<p>At the edge of the clearing, before leaving the cover of the bushes, John stills, holding up a warning hand behind him to stop Sherlock. <em>There’s something; </em>something more than the wind that has started to pick up and whistle through the treetops. Sherlock places a gloved hand on his right shoulder, questioning then tightening—the leather creaking as an impossibly green parakeet careens out of the clearing and dives into one of the bushes beside their path. Startled, disturbed, John guesses that it probably means that their company has arrived at the rendezvous point ahead of them. He reaches his left hand across to lay it briefly on top of Sherlock’s and nods; <em>onward</em>. How is it that the first contact between them seems to re-establish a physical trust that John's mind still doesn't want to describe as anything other than a betrayal? </p>
<p>Shoving that thought away, he takes them along the bird’s path, until the tangled undergrowth makes way to reveal a sheltered clearing. Sherlock touches his shoulder again, saying quietly, "The Gibbet Elms used to be here; the last one fell in a storm in 1907."   </p>
<p>Little more than a break in the tree line, the clearing is secluded, not overlooked by any footpaths — in short, ideal for their rendezvous. The ground in the middle is flat but grassy; by John's estimate, no more than fifty meters long and maybe thirty wide—large enough to serve its macabre purpose today. John takes this all in quickly, because in the middle of the clearing, awaiting their arrival, stands Jim Moriarty. Sherlock’s Belstaff hangs unbuttoned from his shoulders—and at his side, Sebastian Moran. </p>
<p>Before he allows Sherlock to break cover, John runs his eyes over the perimeter and up the trunks of the trees. It would be just like Moriarty to have secured snipers as extra insurance. Not today though, John thinks as he doesn’t find anything out of place amongst the bare tangled trunks, nor anything of concern in the boughs of the trees save a few curious rooks that have settled in the highest branches, their blackened feathers ruffling in the wind.  </p>
<p>Satisfied, John steps into the clearing and immediately feels a red-hot river of anger sluice through him as Moriarty’s face widens into an ear-splitting grin—<em>t</em><em>h</em><em>e bastard is enjoying this!</em> His only saving grace is that Moran, standing close by his Moriarty’s right side, an ornate wooden box held in front of him, clearly is not. Sherlock moves to John’s right alongside him, then shoulder to shoulder they make their way to the centre of the clearing, John’s hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his jacket, his left palm curled securely around the Browning's grip. </p>
<p>As soon as they are within speaking distance, Moriarty claps his hands together delightedly. “Here we are at last, just you and me Sherlock … well, when I say just you and me …” his voice trails off as his gaze lingers on John causing Moran to stiffen beside him. "Well, what's a duel without one's seconds to see that we play fair?" </p>
<p>"I see you got my message, <em> Jim</em>." </p>
<p>"Loud and clear, <em> Sherlock</em>." Moriarty smirks and laughs; there is something manic in that sound which makes John's blood boil. "You want to repeat your challenge? Or have you thought better of it?" </p>
<p>"Oh, it bears repeating,” Sherlock states unequivocally. “You are a fraud, a liar, and I will expose you as a common criminal with limited skills." </p>
<p>"Ooh, you do know how to wound a guy,” Moriarty clutches at his chest dramatically—at the spot this heart would be, John thinks dryly, if the man in fact had one.  </p>
<p>"I might actually give a damn except I'm rather busy right now holding the world to ransom. Three little lines of code and I have brought the world's airlines to a standstill. Or has that news not reached you in your graveyard yet?" </p>
<p>"Fakery,” Sherlock dismisses with a wave of his hand, “the hocus-pocus of a charlatan. There. Is. No. Code." </p>
<p>Moriarty's eyes darken; in his pale-skinned face, they seem to go completely black and John's fingers tighten on the grip of his gun. </p>
<p>"You are an idiot, Sherlock, coming out of hiding like this. I could have had Sebastian here put a bullet right between your eyes." He points a finger toward Sherlock's forehead. "He begged me, but I told him I wanted the pleasure. Made him hand me his gun, unlike that Browning in Doctor Watson's pocket. So here we are." He takes another step closer to Sherlock; only a couple of meters separate them now.  </p>
<p>Moran's scowl shows what the sniper thinks of Moriarty's revelation. It makes John wonder if it's all a front. Could the Irishman have said it just to give his sniper some cover? Is he really unarmed? <em> Who the hell knows? </em> He has to assume that the former special ops agent would be able to do damage regardless of whatever concealed weapons he might or might not have. It makes him quietly click the safety off his own pistol.  </p>
<p>Moriarty is either oblivious to Moran’s discomfort or just doesn’t give a damn. "And how delightfully old fashioned you are!" The Irishman points at the bag slung over Sherlock's shoulder. "Bladed weapons? No, no, no…<em> I'm </em> the challenged; I get to choose the type of weapon." </p>
<p>"Rapiers". Sherlock puts the bag down. "If neither of us manages to draw blood in the first round, the challenger gets the next choice of weapon. This is my choice." </p>
<p>"You've been reading up on your dueling etiquette." </p>
<p>"As have you. It's wise to be prepared."   </p>
<p>John lifts his chin, stifling his own inner protest. He didn’t know a damn thing about this duel before ten minutes ago, and he's feeling more than a little vulnerable. A tiny sliver of doubt starts to wedge its way into his resolve. What is Sherlock hoping to achieve here? He's not bothered to tell John a thing about how he wants this to play out. He’s flying blind here. </p>
<p>Moriarty runs a finger over the lid of the box Moran is holding. "Open it," he commands. John tenses his fingers around his gun as Moran clicks open the latch on the wooden box and lifts the lid. "Two dueling pistols; tell them about them, Sebbie." </p>
<p>"William Bishop of Bond Street, 1840; I cleaned and test fired them this morning to make sure they're in good order. Do you know how to load one?" He aims this question at John. </p>
<p>Is it John's imagination, or is Moran's jaw clenched so tight that he can hardly get his words out? He probably thinks this is as daft an idea as he does. But neither of them is in control of the situation. This is Sherlock's show, and John has to accept that. He snaps, "You do it; I'll watch and do the same." </p>
<p>Moran kneels to put the box down. "We both load and then the challenger gets his choice of weapon; that way, no one can argue that he was handed a duff pistol."  </p>
<p>John may not know much about dueling, but he does know a thing or two about firearms and he has a general idea about how to muzzle load a pistol—but he’s not about to put Sherlock at risk just to prove a point to Moran. ‘<em>1840’ </em> ... John hazards a guess that these are likely to be 16 bore percussion pistols, the type favoured by officers at the time. <em> The </em> <em> lack of rifling in the barrel of the gun is going to give the bullet a terrible spin out of the muzzle... </em> </p>
<p>He kneels down on the cold, wet grass opposite Moran, the box resting between them. He doesn’t take his eyes of Moran but in his peripheral vision he tracks Moriarty moving to the left to give himself a better view and feels Sherlock behind him do the same.  </p>
<p>Moran takes the closest of the pistols from the green felt-lined case and turns it over in his hand. He pours a measure of gunpowder into the bore and places a round ball patch over the muzzle. Placing a lead ball on top, Moran uses the loading rod to force the patch and ball all the way to the back of the barrel, pumping the rod a few times to make sure. He places the flint in the gun's hammer, loads the pan with a small amount of gunpowder, showing it to John. "This is the frizzen; it protects the powder in the pan from the weather and guides the flint into the pan when the trigger is pulled," and then places the pistol back in the box. </p>
<p>John reaches for the remaining pistol and feels Sherlock’s eyes boring into his hand, carefully studying the way he is handling the weapon. John tightens his fingers around the grip, the hardwood solid in his hand. He checks that the pistol is empty before taking a better look, running his eye over the barrel inside and out, looking for any cracks in the material. Staring down the bore he can see that it is smooth and clean—no major rust or pitting—remarkable condition really, for an item that’s more than one and a half centuries old. It’s got a heavy trigger pull so he makes a point of exaggerating the movement of his index finger. It wouldn’t do for Sherlock to be slower off the mark than Moriarty because he miscalculated the strength needed to pull it back. </p>
<p>Mirroring Moran’s actions, John loads the pistol slowly, carefully, ensuring the measure of gunpowder is exact. Laying the prepared pistol back down in the felt-lined space in the box, John pushes himself back onto his heels then up to standing.  </p>
<p>Moriarty reaches into the Belstaff pocket and pulls out a glove that John recognises as Sherlock's. "You left something behind at my place.” </p>
<p>Confused, John’s eyes flick to Sherlock. <em> Has </em> <em> he </em> <em> been spending his time while ‘dead’ with Moriarty? </em> </p>
<p>Sherlock doesn’t look at him, but John registers the slight shake of his head in silent answer<em>, no. </em>  </p>
<p><em> Do I believe him?  </em>John knows that Sherlock has lied often enough…  </p>
<p>"I'd say keep it as a souvenir, but you won't be needing it once we are done here. Prison inmates don't need them." Sherlock’s tone of voice is loaded with sarcasm; it's almost like he's provoking Moriarty. <em>This bloody game of theirs.</em> John can't see the point of riling the madman up even more. What is Sherlock trying to do? </p>
<p>"No, no, no…" the Irishman counters in a sing-song chant. "No prisons, no trials. This is to the death. This time I'll make sure you're dead." </p>
<p>"The same way you made sure that the man who plugged your USB into the back of the server rack at Shanwick didn’t live to tell the tale?” Sherlock challenges. “Wouldn't have wanted him to spill the beans, would you? Let the world know he was the one who delivered your second and third pips, rather than you. Wouldn't look good, would it? You, the criminal mastermind, being shown to be little more than a pipsqueak, a thug who knew how to blackmail the right person, and then have that person conveniently killed on his way home from delivering what you wanted."  </p>
<p>Moriarty shrugs dismissively. “Why do all the work yourself when there are other people sooooo very willing to do it for you? Take your dear doctor here, I mean all his snooping around into your ‘death’ led my man straight to you. Your poor pet, missing you so terribly he could barely even function—he even ended up in a jail cell at one point, didn’t you know?” </p>
<p>Moran preens at the praise for his handiwork and John can’t help but bristle at the taunt. Sherlock, however, ignores it completely.  </p>
<p>“Actually, I think you will find that John evened the score quite nicely when he put Moran in a cell and removed your bugging devices. In fact, it was <em>your </em><em>man</em> who led <em>you </em>straight to <em>me</em>. Or have you forgotten the spot of redecorating I did on your balcony?” </p>
<p>"Okay, so, you got my attention,” Moriarty concedes. “But aren’t you just dying to know what <em>alllllll</em> of this …” he throws his arms wide, flaring the Belstaff out around him, “… has <em>reeeeeally</em> been about?”  </p>
<p>“Oh, I know what it’s all been about,” Sherlock replies casually, looking down and paying particular interest to his fingers as he proceeds slowly to peel the tight black leather glove from them. Only once he has removed both gloves and placed them in the pocket of his jacket does he deign to look back up at Moriarty.  </p>
<p>"You want to put my brother on trial, embarrass him in front of the world. Well, go ahead. We have enough information now about all your little tricks to expose you for good. He's willing to sacrifice himself for the chance to say it all in public—no mathematical genius at work. You've spent a lifetime trying desperately to live up to that reputation, to justify what my brother saw in you. Rather shameless, your attempt to try and make yourself look bigger than you are." </p>
<p>It’s a direct shot and Moriarty eyes narrow dangerously. "Choose your weapon <em>Sherlock</em>, or are you just going to talk me to death?"  </p>
<p>Sherlock bends over the open case, and John watches him select the one that Moran had filled. He feels a stab of… what? Annoyance? Guilt? <em>Doesn't he trust me to do a good job?</em> </p>
<p>Moran throws John a knowing smile, takes the remaining pistol out of the case and checks it over carefully, before handing it to Moriarty, who examines it again, looking extremely confident and at ease with the weapon.  </p>
<p>As if he can read John's mind, the Irishman smirks as he goes through the motions of taking aim at a distant tree. "My great grandfather's pistols, by the way. I used to shoot targets with these at the family estate." </p>
<p>Sherlock is less than impressed, taunting, "If your marksmanship is anything like your crimes, then I dare say I am quite likely to survive."  </p>
<p>The constant needling seems to be getting under Moriarty's skin, and not just his—beside him, John feels Moran tensing. </p>
<p>Moriarty's scowl deepens and he takes another step closer to Sherlock. "You? You're nothing. Just the proxy here for your brother. Too gutless to come himself, so he sends you. You're <em> expendable</em>. How does it feel to be treated like cannon fodder?" </p>
<p>"I'm not my brother. And he doesn't know I'm here. No, I'm taking a leaf out of your book. Prepared to do what you would do. That's why <em> you're </em> here, isn’t it? You’re dying to know why I faked my own death."  </p>
<p>"Coward… you did it to run away, left your little pet like a tethered goat, as bait, to see what I would do. Well, sorry to disappoint. I had a much bigger game to play with your big brother."  </p>
<p>"You talk big, but you're <em>pathetically</em> ordinary and so is your plot. Moran here is about to find out his idol has real feet of clay. It must be embarrassing to fail to live up to everyone's expectations." </p>
<p>"Tell that to the world's airline passengers, doofus." </p>
<p>"Oh, I already have. Whatever happens to me here, a full file is on its way to Mycroft, with chapter and verse of your little frauds. That first pip? All you did was exploit a known flaw in the plane's Wi-Fi. Child’s play, literally—any 12-year old with a smart phone could have done that. And let's add to that the fact that the zerocleare virus is available to anyone with the right amount of money. And the bitcoin? It disappeared, but not into your account; you just killed the transmission route in. Hardly rocket science, even if you like dressing it up as something more than your common-or-garden variety hacker. It's all hot air.” </p>
<p>Moriarty is now grinning. "That's where you are wrong, <em> genius</em>. The airlines got tired of waiting for their governments. I've already been paid my Christmas bonus—in untraceable bearer bonds—just a half hour ago." </p>
<p>Laughing, Sherlock scoffs, "I’d check those carefully if I were you; they're forgeries. Your bluff has been called. Your near miss over the skies of London was no miracle. Just a simple case of getting your little mole in Swanick to swap a set of instructions recorded the week before and send you the frequency to send your messages to the planes. Poor man; his gambling debts really made him an easy target for a bit of strong-arm tactics. But then you had to kill him to keep him quiet so there is no way you could ever repeat it."  </p>
<p>The rapid-fire sparring is giving John whiplash and despite that fact that Sherlock in verbal evisceration mode is always an impressive sight, he’s becoming more and more concerned about where this is all going to end up. </p>
<p>Moriarty spins around and glares hard at Sherlock. "So, mister know-it-all, tell me how I made an entire plane's systems go offline and send it crashing into the earth? That's something that no one's been able to work out." </p>
<p>"Simple. An electromagnetic pulse device, bought on the black market, and shoved into a catering cart. Sorry, Mister <em> I</em><em>mpossible</em>, however hard you try to look big in the eyes of your adoring audience…" Sherlock looks straight at Moran, "…as it turns out, you are just as ordinary as he is.” </p>
<p>Moriarty juts out his chin and rubs a pale hand over it and then down his neck. John is sure the man must be about to explode with rage, he’s quite surprised it hasn’t happened already really, but instead Moriarty simply shrugs the Belstaff off his shoulders and tosses it towards Moran. </p>
<p>John intercepts it in mid-air and snatches it away. “I’ll be taking that back.” He folds it carefully and then puts it on top of Sherlock’s duffel bag that is now resting at his feet.  </p>
<p>Moran snorts and taunts. "He won't be needing it where he's headed. Your Lazarus is about to be sent straight back to hell. And when Jim is done with you, he’ll let me take my sweet time working you over before I finally get around to putting a bullet in your skull, Watson."  </p>
<p>John's fingers tighten around his pistol grip some more. </p>
<p>Sherlock aims his next remarks at Moriarty, bringing the focus back to just the two of them. "I'm no angel. But I am on their side enough to want to put an end to this charade of yours. Let's get on with it."  </p>
<p>Moriarty nods. "Right, you and I half-cock our pistols. We walk side by side to the middle of the glade. When we're back to back, Moran will tell us to fully cock the guns, and call out the paces. Only step when he calls a number. Ten in all, so we are twenty paces apart when we're told to turn and fire. Simple, really."  </p>
<p>The setting sun throws long shadows in front of Moriarty and Sherlock as they move slowly towards the centre of the glade, walking with no more than a meter between them. John estimates that their difference in height between is about four inches—he wonders if that will make a material difference in this fight? He feels a sudden gust of wind that sighs through the branches of the trees behind them; will that affect their aim? He's trying hard to find reasons for Moriarty to miss. Remembering Sherlock's instructions, John is going to have to do what he can to keep Moran out of this. </p>
<p>Both men realise simultaneously that Sherlock and Moriarty have just spoken to each other as they are walking. With their backs turned to them and the wind, it's not possible to hear the snatches of conversation, but it's enough to make Moran stiffen and lean forward. He's so intent on listening that he ignores John bending down to reposition the Belstaff on the duffel bag at his feet. And in so doing, he fails to recognise the threat because the manoeuvre puts John’s right hand in a perfect position.  </p>
<p>In a split second, John grabs the knife out of Moran's ankle holster and spins up and behind Moran, stamping hard at the back of the man's knees, making him drop. Before Moran has a chance to react, John’s left hand is pushing the butt of his gun into the back of the man’s head. "Don't move, don't think, don't even breathe. Hands out where I can see them." </p>
<p>“Fuck you,” Moran spits out. </p>
<p>“No,” John replies leaning into it a bit more, the metal biting into the thin skin covering Moran’s skull, “Fuck you. Just making sure that you don't interfere in what's going on out there.” </p>
<p>The satisfaction of finally having Moran right where he wants him fades as all John can do now is watch helplessly, as Sherlock and the Irishman square off back-to-back in the middle of the clearing. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Twenty Four</p>
<p>Music for Chapter 24 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>In the Shadows - Amy Stroup • In the Shadows<br/>The End - Klergy • The End<br/>Start a War - Klergy, Valerie Broussard • Start a War</p>
<p>Some <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/617594483884851200/few-escape-the-gallows-7percentsolution"><strong>background</strong></a> on the impossibly green birds of Hampstead Heath</p>
<p>The <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/617590933835431936/few-escape-the-gallows-7percentsolution"><strong>history</strong></a> of the Gibbet Elms on Hampstead Heath</p>
<p>Moriarty’s <a href="http://shelleysprometheus.tumblr.com/post/617562785159790592/few-escape-the-gallows-7percentsolution"><strong>choice</strong></a> of dueling pistols and Sherlock’s choice of rapiers</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Till a keeper shot him with his gun</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As he turns away from John, Sherlock is aware that these are the final moments of a long-running battle. Not really about guns, his fight with Moriarty has always been more akin to a fencing match. His decision to bring the pair of rapiers is a nod to that fact, and he knows that Moriarty would have seen it and understood the point.</p><p>Dueling is an ancient tradition, where both confidence and timing play such important roles. Sherlock has worked hard for months to draw Moriarty into this final bout, this last-ditch battle of wits. The bullets and blades they brought to the fight are incidental; what matters is the intellectual combat that is happening right here, right now.</p><p>The incident in Morocco had been the Irishman's first compound attack, a quick cut and thrust, pushing Sherlock into defensive mode, a parry-riposte of Arnaud Guerin's attempts to unsettle him. Moran had seemed to be one of the team, until he wasn't, using his position to expose Sherlock to a closer scrutiny than he would have wanted to reveal to any opponent. In the shadows, Moriarty had watched them and learned too much about how he worked, how he fought, who he valued the most—John, more than Mycroft.</p><p>Moriarty saw that as a weakness to be exploited, ruthlessly. The serial suicides and the courting of John had unfolded like a series of feints, a counter-time strategy, to draw an attack and then a counter-attack in reply, luring Sherlock ever closer until finally he'd seen the point of the Irishman's blade and had to resort to an unorthodox response—he'd had to concede defeat, fake his death on the floor of the Old Operating Theatre and retire from the piste, leaving John and Mycroft to deal with the consequences.</p><p>Had it been cowardly? Moriarty seems to think so, and Sherlock is counting on that fact. To win a fight like this, it is crucial to have the element of surprise, to confound one’s opponent's preconceived ideas, to introduce an element of uncertainty. Each of his barbed comments had been designed to show the man that Sherlock has not been fooled. His airline plot <em>looks</em> good, but it's all just showing off, trying desperately to convince everyone that he is the genius that he's always been telling everyone he is.</p><p>Sherlock knows better. He'd finally found the man's weakness, his area of vulnerability and now he is hammering home, thrusting again and again into that zone, pushing Moriarty back on the defensive. He's shown the man that if he executes his plan to expose Mycroft, the truth of his own failings will be broadcast to the world. No magical three lines of code; it has all been done with smoke and mirrors, to hide his mundane, crude methods.</p><p>Behind them as they walk, there is the sound of a commotion, and both he and Moriarty turn their heads to see that Moran is now kneeling on the grass, his hands out by his side, and John's gun to his head. Sherlock clarifies, "Just ensuring your man doesn't get any ideas."</p><p>Moriarty turns away and takes a step towards the centre of the glade. His tone is flat, emotionless as he asks, "Can you say the same about your man?"</p><p>"He won't interfere," Sherlock answers immediately. "It's just you and me, now."</p><p>No matter what happens here at Gibbet Elms, Sherlock has made sure that Moriarty knows that he's failed. His bluff has been called, the ransom bonds he's been paid are as fake as his own claims to have beaten governments, the airline industry and the world into submission.</p><p>All that's left now is whether Sherlock can deliver the winning touch, the point of his weapon striking the mortal wound. If he can succeed, then Mycroft will be spared the ignominy of exposure, and he will have a chance to try to resurrect his relationship with John.</p><p>When he was at Cambridge, his fencing coach had drummed into him that all great fencing masters understood that winning was less a product of one's blade skills, and more the ability to choose the <em>moment</em>, that exquisite sense of timing that makes all the difference in the execution of the decisive fencing action.</p><p>Now is that moment. If he fails, and Moriarty's shot kills him, well, at least the man will still be exposed for the fraud that he is. Sherlock knows he has pushed Moriarty as far as he can, taunting and goading him. No matter how the Irishman has parried with his braggadocio; he is still on the back foot, not knowing the whole of Sherlock's plan.</p><p>They're halfway to the centre of the glade, walking with no more than a yard between them when Sherlock starts his final counter-attack. He says quietly, in a voice that won't carry to their seconds over the wind, “That’s the curse of the second son; always having to prove you are smarter. As long as you live, your people will learn you're a fraud."</p><p>Even through his peripheral vision he can see that the only reaction from the man to his right is a long, slow reptilian blink. They keep walking.</p><p>There’s just one more point to be made—a stop hit that springs the ultimate surprise—and as they take up their positions, back to back, him facing north and the Irishman facing south, he times it perfectly.</p><p>"There <em>is</em> a way out that will spare your exposure. You could always just kill yourself; it would be a lot less effort,” he throws the comment back over his shoulder just as Sebastian calls out across the glade:</p><p>“One.”</p><p>Sherlock's strides are naturally longer than Moriarty’s, so he shortens his step a little. The heel of his boot sinks into the grassy soil, and the muscles in his calf and thigh tighten to compensate. He stops, waiting for Moran to call the next step. Timing is everything in this battle; he has to let his revelations sink into Moriarty's consciousness. He has to give the Irishman the chance to think it all through, to imagine his humiliation in the eyes of the public when the tissue of lies that he's built are torn apart.</p><p>“Two.”</p><p>It’s all down come down to this—these last few seconds, these last few steps. The wind has picked up further. The rooks, ruffled but resisting the wind, are swaying back and forth with the branches. Harsh caws ring out across the glade; it's nearly time to roost for the night.</p><p>“Three.”</p><p>He’s now losing sight of John and Moran in his peripheral vision. These last images of John—his gun to Moran's head, waiting patiently, trusting—if that is the last glimpse granted to him of the man he loves, then it is somehow fitting. His love of John has been kept deeply buried these past seven weeks, but seeing him again has reignited something he'd almost lost sight of—hope. Hope that this works out, that the duel ends the way he hopes it will, hope that he gets a second chance to repair the damage that he's done to John.</p><p>“Four.”</p><p>Now it’s just him, the six remaining steps, the Irishman at his back and the expanse of oak and beech in front of him. The world narrows. His respiration rate is even, measured. His heart rate, above resting, light exercise but not spiked with adrenaline. Calm, focused. <em>Now or never. </em>Somehow, the inevitability of this moment is not frightening.</p><p>"Five."</p><p>Just as Sherlock goes to take the fifth step, he freezes; a sound? A movement? Something alerts him to turn so that out of the corner of his eye he sees John’s gun leaving the back of Moran’s head to point in Moriarty’s direction. His brain slows his vision down so he can see every detail in fine resolution, and even at this distance, he can spot John's indecision.</p><p>Believing that the Irishman may be about to fire at his back, Sherlock spins around to see what John believes could be a threat. What surprises him is that Moriarty is still facing the opposite direction but has stopped pacing and is just standing in the middle of the clearing. Sherlock’s eyes narrow at the sight. <em>What final trick does the man have up his sleeve?</em></p><p>His eyes flick quickly to Moran, but the sniper is as still as Moriarty, just watching his boss. John has his weapon trained on Moriarty; his other hand is keeping Moran on his knees. Returning to the eerie image of a completely still, utterly silent Moriarty, Sherlock watches as the Irishman slowly tips his head back, his chin to the sky. Sherlock raises his pistol in anticipation, but the man beats him to it. A flash, smoke and then a thunderous boom of black powder igniting rings out across the greying sky, sending the rooks scattering.</p><p> </p><p>oOoOoOoOo</p><p> </p><p>Sebastian sees Jim stop, hesitate, look up to the sky. Pinned in a kneeling position, he can do nothing but stare in question as Jim lifts the antique pistol to his own head. The gunshot shocks a hole in him, scattering the rooks from the trees. The pistol falls from a lifeless hand, as the body of Jim Moriarty falls backwards onto the grass.</p><p>Sebastian slumps forward, falling heavily onto his hands, blunt fingers digging into the cold, wet grass. The reverberations of the shot have ceased but he still feels them, through the ground, into his bones, his entire being. Cold. Bare. Empty. </p><p>Jim hasn’t moved from the place where he landed on his back. No one else has moved a muscle either. Not Holmes, ten paces away from Jim, pistol raised in question, watching carefully. Not Watson, standing behind him, gun pressed once more to the back of his head.</p><p>Even the wind has died down in this moment. </p><p>Sebastian can’t see Jim's face as his head is turned away from him, cheek pressed to the grass, but he doesn't need to check to know that Jim is dead. He watched a round lead ball exit through the back of his head, the blood spatter visible even at this distance. A round ball leaves no neat wound; he doesn't need to see it to know that there is no chance of survival. He saw the pistol fall limply from Jim's hand. Saw him fall to the ground.</p><p>Sebastian doesn't need to check. But he doesn't know what to do with that information either. Jim… dead? It isn't possible. It can't be. Jim can't die. Jim would never allow it, not by his own hand. <em>Impossible.</em></p><p>He takes a shallow breath. The damp air of the heath now replaced with the taste of death drawn into his lungs. A sense of seeing himself from a distance. He's felt it before. Helmand. When everyone lay dead around him. He's felt it before, but not like this. Nothing like this. <em>Jim is dead.</em> This isn't just anyone, not a fellow soldier; the body lying there with the back of his head in bloody ruins is <em>Jim.</em></p><p>Sebastian is finding it hard to breathe. The soldier in him knows it is shock. Of all the people, he is someone who should not be shocked by a death from a gun. And yet, here he is, reeling from too many feelings, unable to move.</p><p>Holmes lowers his pistol and walks slowly across the grass to stand beside Jim's body. Crouching down, he transfers his pistol to his other hand and presses two fingers against Jim's carotid. It's a sacrilege, him touching Jim, every one of Sebastian's nerve endings starts firing, telling him to escape Watson's hold and wrench Holmes away.</p><p>"Stay put," the man behind the gun at his head growls in warning and the grip on the back of his neck tightens but Sebastian can hear a slight quiver of uncertainty in that order.</p><p>He watches as Holmes reaches over the fallen body to pick up Jim's pistol. He examines it to see that it has fired; the gunpowder and ball are gone. Then he uses the pistol to tilt Jim's chin up to see the entry wound. Holmes looks up and nods to Watson.</p><p>It's communication without the need for words, the sort of unspoken rapport that he shares with Jim.</p><p>The pressure of the gun on the back of Sebastian’s disappears and Watson shoves Sebastian roughly forward before stepping back away from him.</p><p>Sebastian pushes himself upright to stand on unnaturally clumsy feet. His legs numb, his mind blank, he takes the series of slow, unsteady steps required to close the distance between the world that he once shared with Jim and the one in which Jim has now left him alone.</p><p>Reaching Jim’s side, Sebastian stops and looks down to see that his hands are shaking. <em>Shaking? </em>His hands never shake. This isn’t right. This can’t be right. He thinks a little hysterically, maybe it’s not real, maybe it’s just a terrible nightmare, or one of Jim’s ridiculous pranks. Maybe Jim is going to suddenly leap to his feet and crow delightedly at his own joke—“You didn’t <em>really</em> think I was <em>dead,</em> did you, Tiger?”</p><p>But as Sebastian stands in the middle of the clearing, at the bottom of the hole that he now finds himself in, staring at his grass-stained, trembling hands, he knows that is not going to happen. Suddenly his finds that his legs can’t hold him up a second longer and he collapses onto his knees at Jim’s shoulder.</p><p>The sun, now having sunk even lower on the horizon, has stripped any illusion of warmth with it, leaving the cold and damp to settle in his bones. Sebastian can still make out the form of Holmes standing off the right, and somewhere there must be Watson, but they are no longer important. Nothing is important anymore. His focus has narrowed down to this moment, on his knees beside the body of the man who has been his world, his whole world for so long.</p><p>Fingers that still shake reach out to touch the side of Jim’s face, to stroke the unearthly pale skin resting on those gently sloping cheekbones below those unfathomable and now entirely empty black eyes. Jim’s beautiful black hair hides the evidence of his death, but the ground beneath his head is dark and damp, stained with his blood.</p><p>Seconds, minutes go by. Time stands still. It’s just him, cradling Jim’s face in the centre of the clearing.</p><p>Sebastian closes his eyes and bows his head in defeat.</p><p> </p><p>oOoOoOoOo</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock makes his way back to where John is still standing, where he had Moran on his knees. Sherlock bends down to the wooden box, replacing the pistols. Then he picks up his Belstaff from where it is resting on top of his duffel bag of rapiers. He hasn’t seen it since Moriarty nicked it from the stool when he left Barts morgue. He shakes out the heavy woven cloth before tossing the coat around his shoulders and shrugging his arms into it. He wraps it tight, drawing the collar up like he always did. Comforting for a second, before the scent of Moriarty’s expensive but hideous cologne invades his nostrils making him recoil. He rips the coat off in disgust and tosses it back down on the ground.</p><p>He looks up to find John, gun now lowered by his side but still ready, staring back at him with eyes Sherlock has never seen before.</p><p>Nothing is the same.</p><p>The man who once looked at him with wonder and then love is gone, replaced by someone new, someone exuding caution and something that Sherlock can't even put a name to. John keeps his gun in his left hand but uses the other to pass over the knife he'd taken off Moran's ankle.</p><p>"What now?" John's voice is flat; there is a no love in his tone and a stiffness in his stance that Sherlock recognises—the soldier is still on duty, seeking orders.</p><p>"We let him mourn a bit longer." Sherlock busies himself with the box, unzipping the duffel bag and squeezing it in alongside the rapiers. He slips the knife in, too.</p><p>Frowning, John asks him, "Trophies?"</p><p>There is anger and a bit of judgment in his tone, and it rankles. Sherlock snaps, "No; <em>evidence</em>. Not that we'll be needing anything more." He stands up, unzipping the outside top pocket of his biker jacket and pulling a phone out. "I've recorded the whole thing. There will be no dispute. Moriarty killed himself."</p><p>John's jaw is clenched. "What did you say to him? What made him do that?"</p><p>"The truth, and nothing but the truth." Sherlock slings the bag onto his shoulder. He carries the Belstaff over his arm, and heads back to the centre of the glade. "Coming?" he calls back over his shoulder to John.</p><p>They approach Moran, who is sitting on the grass, having pulled the body into a clumsy embrace, Jim's bloodied head in his lap. He is stroking the dark hair, and in the failing light, Sherlock can see the tracks of tears on Sebastian's face. The sniper doesn't acknowledge their presence, lost in his grief.</p><p>Sherlock clears his throat, "You need to go, <em>now</em>."</p><p>Moran looks up at him, "No, you go. I will take care of him now."</p><p>"Not going to happen. The body is needed as evidence. You have a short window of opportunity before the authorities arrive. After that, you'll be arrested and charged with being an accessory to his conspiracy to commit fraud."</p><p>"He never told me what he was up to."</p><p>Sebastian sounds as if he regrets that admission, but it helps Sherlock with what to say next. "Then he clearly wanted to keep you out of danger. Take that gift and run."</p><p>"I can't leave him."</p><p>"Yes, you can. He took his own life; <em>his</em> decision, not yours. If you don't go, then you are throwing away the last thing he was able to do for you."</p><p>Sebastian looks down at the lifeless eyes, taking his hand to close the lids. Then he bends over Jim's head to whisper something into the dead, unhearing ears. Brushing his lips against Jim's temple, he gently moves the body from his lap. When Sebastian stands, the last rays of the setting sun through the trees reveal the blood stains on his navy hoodie, the green down gilet and on his hands.</p><p>Beside him, John tenses, raising his gun in warning, as if expecting the sniper to attack, but Sherlock knows it won't happen.</p><p>"Fuck you both if you think this is the last of it." Moran turns and walks away, his stride strong and martial, as might expect from a former soldier.</p><p>"Why did you let him get away?" John demands, rounding on Sherlock as soon as Moran disappears from sight, obscured by the shrubs and the increasing darkness of Christmas night.</p><p>Sherlock shrugs, "You wanted to kill him; I'd rather you didn't go to prison for murder. It would put a damper on our reunion."</p><p>"Put him on trial then!"</p><p>"And watch him destroy Mycroft? It's better this way. Moran has lost enough. Without Jim, he is nothing to worry about. Let's go home, John.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inspiration for Chapter Twenty Five</p><p>Music for Chapter 25 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Kashmir - Les Friction • In the Shadows<br/>Desolation - Tommee Profitt • Gloria Regali<br/>The King - Tony Anderson • The Heart of Man</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Inspiration for the Epilogue</p><p>Music for Chapter 26 by johnlocklover221 on Tumblr/Dovahlock221 on AO3<br/>Enter One - Sol Seppy • The Bells of 12<br/>Mountains - MISSIO • Love Me Whole (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)<br/>After the Storm - Mumford &amp; Sons • Sigh No More</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mycroft takes in the scene from his position at the door to the flat—his mulishly sulking brother and the simmering angry doctor. The pair of them are sitting in their usual chairs, but now both chairs are turned away from each other, facing the hearth. It says more than body language ever could; the very geography of Baker Street has changed.</p><p>The frosty silence of the room tells him that Sherlock has paid a high price for his plan, no matter how successful it has proved.</p><p>He clears his throat, announcing to no-one in particular. “Everything has been taken care of.”</p><p>“What about Moran?” John demands coldly, refusing to acknowledge his presence by turning to face him. “He's still out there running free.”</p><p>“He may yet prove useful,” Sherlock responds, adding flippantly, "At least one of them should be. If Mycroft's recruitment strategy doesn’t end him in hot water, Moran may well lead us to the remains of Jim's empire."</p><p>Mycroft notes this contradiction earns a glare from John, but he is in debt to his brother's wisdom. If he had been the one on the Heath, Mycroft wonders if he would have been able to take so coolly calculated a decision to set Moran free. It might have been easier to explain away another death there as self-defence. He hopes hindsight will not prove Sherlock wrong.</p><p>To achieve what Sherlock had done—to give Moriarty no choice but to commit suicide or see his reputation destroyed, his criminal network disbanded in disgust, and his lover Moran abandon him—had been a masterstroke. Of course, if he'd been asked, or even told about such a plan, Mycroft would have stopped him. It had been an incredibly risky manoeuvre and not one he'd have allowed. Of course, that is exactly why Sherlock had taken matters into his own hands, leaving the cryptic <em>TRUST ME</em> on the CCTV map.</p><p>A duel. Of all the harebrained, ridiculous and yet brilliant ideas. Sherlock had seen the one chink in Moriarty's armour and slipped the stiletto of truth in. To be declared a fraud, fake, a charlatan emblazoned across the news networks of the world—it was simply too much to ask of Moriarty's ego in exchange for his plot to ruin Mycroft.</p><p>In hindsight, Mycroft does not quite grasp why the Irishman had taken such a dislike of him. It wasn't personal; he'd done nothing to hurt Moriarty or interfere with his network, had actually flattered his ego by his attempt to recruit him.</p><p>John isn't mollified and still won't look at Sherlock. Keeping his eyes on the flames in the hearth, he comments, "Moran will be motivated by revenge; he'll come after you. By letting him go, you may have a very short time to enjoy your… resurrection."</p><p>Mycroft flinches internally on Sherlock's behalf. He's walked into a domestic battlefield, a duel of a different sort between two men who have a lot of issues to work out if their relationship is to survive. He has never wanted to be somewhere else quite so keenly than at this very moment, so he gets to the point. "The Powers-That-Be are grateful. I'm only dropping by to pay you the courtesy of delivering the message personally, and to congratulate you both on your success."</p><p>This praise falls on stony ground.</p><p>“Well, all’s well that ends well then,” Mycroft adds with a grimaced smile. “I must be off, brother mine.”</p><p>“Do try not to cultivate any other psychopaths into criminal masterminds before dinner will you, you know how that messes with the world order.” Sherlock curls his lip sarcastically. As his eyes scan the mantelpiece, they narrow at the empty space on the left-hand side. “What’s happened to my skull?”</p><p>“Oh,” John responds with a tight smile, his anger dangerously controlled. “We have <em>quite </em>a lot to catch up on.”</p><p> </p><p>oOoOoOoOo</p><p> </p><p>He's walked for miles through the night, the rain plastering his hair and soaking his jacket. He stops occasionally to take another sip from the scotch bottle he'd bought from the Tesco Express near Swiss Cottage. He can't go back to Royalty Mews; Mycroft's minions will be there waiting for him. Sebastian is rudderless, cast adrift on the sea of his grief. To watch Jim die had been awful enough; but to see the man take his own life had been a knife to Sebastian's heart.</p><p>As dawn creeps over the horizon, he's ended up here, wherever here is. Somewhere in East London, he guesses. Through the chain-link fence, he watches the Thames rolling out with the tide. The carpark beside the factory building is empty; workers all at home, enjoying their Boxing Day holiday. Overhead, there is a plane approaching City Airport. If he wanted any evidence that Jim's plans have all come apart at the seams, the plane is it.</p><p>Why? Why did Jim take his own life? It made no sense. He would have been able to outsmart the two Holmes brothers. And if not, then Sebastian could have rid the world of them. Two obstacles, two bullets from his gun and the problem would have gone away. Why wouldn't Jim let him do it?</p><p>Why had Holmes let him go? That, too, makes no sense. For someone who claims to be a genius, Holmes is making a lethal mistake. Sebastian will spend the rest of his life, no matter how short that might be, trying to avenge Jim's death.</p><p>His dazed thoughts are interrupted by something vibrating in his pocket. In a drunken haze, Sebastian pulls out his phone and tries to make sense out of the letters on the screen.</p><p>He swears he must be hallucinating—not surprising seeing as how he has knocked back an entire bottle of whisky. He hazily wonders how acute the alcohol poisoning needs to be to shut down his organs.</p><p>Despite the numbing effect of the alcohol, he feels like he has been cracked over the head with a truncheon when the words in the text message finally swim into focus.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Bannayre, Kilnaborris. 3pm. December 31.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Colonel James Moriarty.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A final note from SP:</p><p>With this chapter, we are now at the end of this particular journey. This was my first co-authoring experience and it has been, quite simply, effing amazing. Working with @7-percent has stretched my skills, abilities and belief in myself and what I am able to do exponentially. And I think that has translated into an even better fic for all of you. </p><p>My heartfelt thanks as always to the amazing beta-ing/pompom waving skills of @88thparallel (literally, pompoms!) - your feedback means the world to us. </p><p>My thanks also for the musical inspiration of the incomparable @johnlocklover221/Dovahlock221 on AO3 to whom I am forever indebted for their BakerEdits fanfic video <a href="http://youtu.be/4Mg5vU9zgZM"><strong>Mister Impossible</strong></a> and the absolutely brilliant <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/22563823"><strong>playlists</strong></a> they created for this fic on Spotify and YouTube. </p><p>And last but not least, my everlasting gratitude to the incomparable @bluebellofbakerstreet who created <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/22531006"><strong>this</strong></a> truly stunning cover for this fic.</p><p>To all of the readers who have been with me since the beginning or have joined me/us along the way, you know who you are and I love you all! Not a day goes by that I am not incredible grateful to be a part of this fandom and to share the love of these wonderful characters with you!</p><p>… you didn't think that was it did you? How could we leave it there with all this delicious angst! Stay tuned for the next installment in this series: From the Cold Ashes!</p>
        </blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22563823">Forethought and Fire Series Playlist</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/pseuds/Dovahlock221">Dovahlock221</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
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